


He Calls Himself the Quartermaster

by Only_1_Truth



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Q literally is a secret-boss, Rape/Non-con Elements, Superpowers, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 102,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Silva rose with his gifted allies - called Augments - London fell, and MI6 nearly followed after it.  Now, like a wounded tiger defending its home to the last, MI6 tries to hold back the tide that threatens to swallow them.  Even with M at the helm refusing to give quarter or give up and 007 with an almost inhuman tendency towards resurrection, MI6 is falling.  </p>
<p>Until they get help from a mysterious contact, someone willing to smuggle supplies past the Augments and create weapons and tech to keep MI6 in the fight.  No one knows his face, no one can find him, and all anyone knows is that he calls himself the Quartermaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter Q

 

“He’s not going to turn up,” Bond muttered, lips barely moving but eyes restlessly impatient as he sat on the bench in the battered museum, only his earpiece for company.  More quietly, he sniped under his breath, “…A waste of my time…”

“Stop whining, Bond,” came the wrathful retort in his ear.  It sounded tinny and scratchy; this earpiece would be in need of repairs soon, too.  “MI6 may have lost its claws, but I haven’t.”

Bond settled down, only because he knew that M’s threats were never empty, and her temper was short these days.  Ever since Augments had decided to make war on the general populace, things had been a little...tense.  By ‘tense’ Bond actually meant ‘horrid’, and some parts of London looked (quite accurately) like a war-zone.  MI6 had sustained significant damage when Silva and his gifted friends had decided to step out of the shadows and play with the powers they had.  

Augments - people with abilities far beyond the normal human repertoire - were all enemies of the Crown now, but that hardly mattered, because they were winning.  MI6 was a wounded tiger, and the most galling part was that, of late, their only successes had been dependant upon an unknown entity who was able and willing to supply MI6 with the weaponry and tech that Silva and his men kept blowing up.  

MI6 was in need of technology to face a pair of Telekinetics who had been wreaking havoc left and right.  Although MI6 and most of London had already bent so low as to delve into the Black Market, there was only one person who seemed to know how to deal with Telekinetics and what worked against them.  

Bond remembered looking at the file, leaving his usual flashy clothes and putting away his gun in favor of street-clothes for the more delicate mission of ‘delivery/pick-up boy’.

“He calls himself the Quartermaster,” M said in his ear, voice stern as always, “He’s an Augment, but he’s also able to repair anything we’ve got, and pull spare parts seemingly out of thin air for us.  We have to trust him out of necessity.”  

“And yet he won’t show his face,” Bond grumbled snarkily, keeping his annoyance from showing on his face should anyone be watching him.  There was still no one at the pick-up site.

“Stop whining, 007.  It doesn’t become you.  Maybe if you hadn’t botched your last mission so badly I wouldn’t putting you on petty jobs like this,” M observed.  

Bond winced and didn’t deign to comment, instead remembering fondly how wonderfully that last building had burned.  There were days when 007 could match Silva for pure destructiveness.  Sadly, M hated those days...

The Quartermaster was elusive and flighty, and other meetings had been botched when their Technopathic contact got spooked.  Bond sighed again, resisting the urge to tap his foot, entirely certain that MI6 was about to be stood up yet again, despite the fact that they’d let this Quartermaster – codenamed ‘Q’ in the file for the sake of brevity – pick both the time and location.  Considering what a dangerous place the world was right now, they were going out on quite a limb.

Also considering how short MI6 was on useful weaponry, they didn’t have much choice.  

The museum Bond was in now was run-down.  Like so many things, it had fallen afoul of riots and even a bomb or two, courtesy of Silva’s cronies.  Only one wall out of three were left standing, and Bond could actually see quite a view where one of those walls should have been.  There were a few people out there – on the streets, not in the museum.  Places of relaxation and idle time-wasting had been the things to suffer most when civilization went downhill.  Still, enough people still doggedly lived in the neighborhood to make this at public place, if only because passersby only had to deviate slightly from their daily path to glimpse a charred painting or two, and remember life as it used to be.

Bond was idly focusing on a painting of a ship, its frame crooked as it clung to the remaining half of a crumbling wall.  The image was so…

“Melancholy, isn’t it?”

It took a mountain of control not to reach for his weapon and jump into a defensive position, but thanks to years of MI6 training, Bond did nothing more than swivel his head around.  He was not used to being snuck up on…!

And apparently he hadn’t been, because he didn’t see anyone around who could have spoken.  “What the…?”

“007?” M asked in his ear, but he ignored her, knowing she’d hush quickly.  Missions never went well when an agent was distracted, and M didn’t have enough agents to spare to get one killed thanks to her asking questions in their ear.  She’d be silent until 007 said something to indicate that everything was safe and clear.  

“By the way you’re talking, I assume you haven’t figured it out,” came a slightly mechanical sigh, “Look down.  My voice is coming from the dog that should be somewhere near you by this point.”  

Feeling a bit as though he’d stepped through the rabbit-hole, Bond looked down, finding a rough-looking black-and-white dog that would probably not quite come up to his knee, but looked a bit like a Husky to him.  It was sitting with its triangular ears pointed at him, and presently its head cocked almost questioningly.  What drew 007’s wary attention most, however, was the collar about its neck, which contained a little box and speaker instead of tags.  

Q’s voice came through the speaker quite clearly, “Agent, meet Kaleb.  I apologize for not meeting you in person, but-”

“How in blazes do you train a dog to do tricks like this for you?” Bond couldn’t help but blurt as he noticed the little pack saddled over the dog’s back as well.  

The voice of the elusive Technopath sighed, and now the reply was considerably drier than before and perhaps laced with a bit of derision: “If an agent like yourself can be trained to do tricks, then surely a dog can.”

At the obvious jibe, Bond narrowed his eyes, and he swore the dog grinned as its jaws parted to reveal a pink tongue and delicate sharp teeth.  It continued to sit not far to Bond’s right as if it had been guided there by a distant hand - which, apparently, it had.  “Very funny.  I’m speaking to the Quartermaster, I assume?  I imagined you taller.”

The dog wuffed a little bark as if getting the joke, while Bond imagined the absent Quartermaster glowering.  “You’re quite the comedian yourself, Agent, but we’ve business to attend to, don’t we?  I have the tech MI6 was asking for, put together and ready for use.  This is the first time I’ve dealt in something quite as delicate as this, so I figured that delivering this directly into the hands of an agent would be prudent.  Kaleb will sit still and let you access the tech - just be sure not to move too quickly.  He’ll startle, I promise, and he’s faster than you are.”

Bond wondered about that, seeing a challenge and also thinking that a bullet was faster yet, but the little dog hadn’t done anything to him to warrant shooting.  Therefore, feeling a little bit ridiculous, the blonde-haired man got up from the bench and slowly turned, kneeling down and wondering if that was how one was supposed to approach a dog without spooking it.  Kaleb’s black ears flicked back once, but Bond could hear Q talking to it through the voice-box, telling the canine to stay.  Kaleb watched Bond with keen, dark eyes, clearly planning on making his own assertions despite his master’s orders.  

On impulse, Bond recalled the candybar in his pocket.  After too many times being cut off by one or more of Silva’s gifted Augments, most MI6 personal (or people in general) had taken to carrying supplies around in their pockets just in case.  The bar was by no means all that tasty, but since dogs were known to eat feces, he figured that tastes would vary.  Movements careful and unthreatening, 007 slipped the candybar from his pocket and unwrapped it, aware of the attention that the dog was paying to him.  That attention doubled tenfold when Bond held out half the bar on his palm, clearly in offering.  

Bond smiled as he made a friend, thinking of how M considered most of her agents to be pathologically unsocial when they weren’t trying to seduce people on missions.  Kaleb ate the treat without taking his eyes off 007, but his tail wagged.  

“Agent?”

“Just trying not to scare your dog, Q.  This is 007, by the way,” Bond made conversation, giving the dog the other half of the candybar before moving to pet its head and unstrap one of the packs slung over its side.  “I’m surprised: no cameras to look in on this meeting?”

“No, unfortunately.  There are precious few places in London that had visual coverage nowadays,” Q lamented, “But this was as good a place as any to meet up, and Kaleb can run through most of the holes in the walls that you can’t.”

“Good grief, Q, I’m not going to attack you dog.”  In fact, right now he was rubbing the little creature’s ears, smiling as the dog gave him a pink-tongued grin.  

“That’s much appreciated...007,” the Quartermaster tentatively used his title.  “Now, in those packs you’ll find all you need to deal with Telekinetics.  They’re not guns, you’ll notice, but I figure you still have access to normal guns, at least.”

Well, they were down two guns after last week, when Alec had had a mission go bad with 002, but that would be the topic for another meeting.  This was the longest and most personal talk that anyone in MI6 had had with their mysterious benefactor, and 007 didn’t want to push his luck.  He opened up one of the satchels.  “Q?”

“Yes?” was the perfectly polite answer, matching with the curious and unassuming tilt of Kaleb’s head.  

“This looks like an egg-timer.”

There was stunned silence for a moment, and Bond imagined a face blinking at him - although what kind of face he didn’t know.  No one had caught the Quartermaster’s face on video or camera yet.  Finally, Q must have recovered enough to reply smartly, “I assure you, 007, that it is not...an egg-timer.  It’s designed to work against the basic concept of a Telekinetic.  Their powers work because of...”  Q continued to explain.  

The rest honestly went over 007’s head, so after a moment he interrupted automatically, “Plain English, Q.”

The little voice-box emitted a world-weary sigh.  “It disrupts the energy field that a Telekinetic uses, in Laymen’s terms.”

“Huh.”  Bond turned the thing in his hand, noting various buttons and such which all made no sense.  “And an on-switch?”

“Just because it’s not conveniently labeled, you can’t find it?” came the sardonic response.  

Bond growled low in his throat and was amused to see that the dog wasn’t bothered.  “Q, if you feel the need to make me guess about on-switches, I’m liable to shoot it,” he informed the elusive Quartermaster with absolute sincerity.  

“Bond!” he heard M hissing through his earpiece reproachfully.  He winced at the sharp tone in his ear but gamely ignored it.  

Fortunately, either Q was more tolerant than M, or he knew enough about Bond not to take the threat personally.  There was another sigh from the dog’s collar.  “There’s also a thumbdrive in the bag explaining the usage of these devices in more detail.  I’ve made three, and would be happiest if you didn’t break any of them and force me to make more.  The information on the drives is locked with the same cypher that I used last time.”  

Bond approved of Q’s paranoia, and nodded even though only the dog could see.  Kaleb had warmed up to him quite fully, and was licking the inside of Bond’s wrist as the agent petted him.  “Much appreciated, Quartermaster.”

“You’re welcome.  If MI6 is in need of anything else, feel free to contact me in the usual way,” was the pleased, prim reply.  “Have you all of the tech  then?”

Bond had transferred all three ‘egg-timers’ into one satchel, returning the other to its place on the dog’s little harness.  Kaleb made a disgruntled whine at the lopsidedness, but Bond just smiled secretively, holding a finger to his lips in a silencing motion that just confused the dog. “All transferred, Q.”  Meanwhile, Bond lifted a hand and pressed a button on his earpiece, one that would be likely to surprise M a little bit.  Bond then took his earpiece out entirely and tucked it away into the dog’s remaining satchel.  

“Good.  I’m off then - or, rather, Kaleb is.”

“See you, Q,” Bond replied quite congenially.

There was a huff of laughter.  “No, you won’t.”  

The next words were quieter commands to Kaleb, said in what Bond identified as German.  Kaleb gave a little yip and immediately took to his heels, and if Bond had tried to follow, he had no doubt that he’d have lost the canine in seconds, minutes at most.  It’s black and white body was soon disappearing from sight down the broken hallways of the neglected art museum.  Bond took his time standing, flicking his phone out of his pocket and quickly using it to contact M now that he lacked an earpiece.  She was, understandably, bemused by his actions.  

“Bond, why did you turn the tracking signal on your earpiece and then cease to answer it?”

Bond smiled, securing the small pack of tech in place under his coat, safe and close to his person.  “Q sent a trained dog to deliver our package, so I decided to send a present back.”

“Hm,” was all M said, asking no more questions, “Tracking the signal now.  003 is in the area - we’ll have her enroute immediately to try and find the Quartermaster.  I want you to come straight back with the tech.  It’s the priority.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  007 was secretly displeased that it wouldn’t be him who was the first to see Q’s face, but all in all, it had been a good day.  He hadn’t been shot at, he’d made friends with a very intelligent dog, and he’d possibly outmaneuvered a very intelligent man.  

~^~

Later that night, having returned to MI6 and been issued a new earpiece, Bond lay on the couch of his flat, drifting off to sleep.  With the danger of the Augments, most agents had been issued places to sleep in MI6 headquarters itself, but 007 was a special exception.  Still, he slept lightly and kept his earpiece in, just in case.  

Therefore, when the dry voice appeared in his ear, James’s eyes opened and he was instantly listening.  “Nice try, 007, but I found your earpiece before any of your fellow agents found me.”  Q didn’t sound particularly offended, but he also didn’t sound impressed.  Bond sat up.  

“Apparently they got close enough that you knew someone was tracking you.”

There was faint laughter as a reply.  “Hardly.  I simply turned off the earpiece’s out-going signals the instant I found it.  I assumed that someone would be following.”  There was a pause, and then something like academic curiosity.  “Was it you, by any chance?”

“No, it was 003.  I’d have done a much better job of it.  Maybe even caught you before you noticed anything,” Bond mused as if talking about the weather.  He had reached for his phone to dial up MI6, but couldn’t see the point.  Maybe MI6 could do something about finding the Quartermaster via this new line of communication, but since they were dealing with an obviously canny Technopath, it hardly seemed likely.  Besides, why did they have to catch the Quartermaster anyway?  “Nothing personal, Q.  It was just reflex.”  

“Oh, I’m not angry,” came the unexpectedly quick reply, “I knew there was a risk with dealing in secret with MI6.  However, the more you try and find me, the harder it will be for me to help you, you must understand.”

There was definitely a tone of warning in that last sentence.  Bond was good enough at reading voices to hear the edge of wariness and the heavy edge of uneasy distrust.  This was a Technopath working in a world that viewed Augments like himself as lethal threats, and he was not only helping an organization that neutralized Augments, but at the same time obviously working against the rest of his own kind  by doing so.  To say that that led to paranoia would be an understatement.  

“Don’t worry, Q, I don’t try any more tricks like that.”  He decided to joke as he moved into his kitchen to boil hot water for tea.  “I destroy far too many guns and technological pieces to alienate MI6’s best supplier.  M would skin me if I scared you off.”

“Glad we see eye to eye then,” said Q brusquely.  Bond send his tone relaxing, however.  “And this was not entirely a bad experience.  I have access to MI6 communications now.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No, 007,” Q sighed, a bit tiredly, “I may not want to be caught, but I’m on your side.  I’ll be informing M within the hour that I...might be talking to her agents a bit during missions.  I figure that will be helpful, and if M is at least aware of this, she might feel inclined to accept my help.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Bond asked with quiet curiosity.  He wasn’t sure who was cat and who was mouse in this game, but his predatory instincts kept him pushing for more information.  Besides, if Q had felt the need to talk to 007 personally, he should have known that nosiness came with the territory.  

The answer was unexpected and tentative, but it sounded surprisingly sincere, “Then I’ll help anyway.  Good night, 007.”

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chestnut_NOLA is a writer I found out about only recently, and I've been glad ever since - she's responsible for the lovely banner I've now got for this fic! She says she's just a beginner at banner-making, and 'practicing', but it's all modesty ;3 A million thanks to her for taking the time to make me this banner. (Check out her fics on AO3!!)


	2. A Quartermaster and his Agents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elusive Technopath truly begins to take up Quartermaster duties, babysitting 00-agents. 
> 
> Or the chapter in which Q helps out MI6 a bit more, and you find out a bit more about 007, of all people...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the last chapter was a bit short by my standards! Hopefully this one is a bit longer ;) I'm on Winter Break, so I've got more time to post things!

Bond actually didn’t hear anything about Q for the next week or so, but after that, M informed all of her agents rather stiffly that if they heard a slightly dry, sometimes snarky voice in their earpieces, they should use their best judgment as to whether to listen to it or not.  Clearly, M had had a talk with Q herself, and she seemed uncertain how to take this change in MI6’s relationship with this elusive man.  He had yet to show himself as anything but their ally, helping them dozens of ways and asking for nothing more than anonymity in return, and M had tentatively come to trust in his intentions.  

It was another week before anything came of it.  005 was on a mission in which he came up against one of the Telekinetics, and apparently something went belly-up and the tech Q had given ceased to work.  Q had suddenly been on the line, berating the agent and informing them that the tech wouldn’t malfunction if he just bothered to read the usage instructions and not mess it up.  The Quartermaster had proceeded to rapidly instruct 005 on getting the tech to work, and the mission had ended in success - and 005 had come back with his ears metaphorically blistered by the Quartermaster’s angry tongue.  There was no question after that as to the competence of Q, but it was clear that crossing him in the category of technology was about as unwise as facing off with a Pyro while covered in kerosine.  

The truly amusing part of the little episode was that Q had never identified himself, and no one else had had the time to get a word in edgewise.  Q had simply sounded so forceful that 005 had followed his commands on instinct, only being told later that he’d been chewed out by Q.  M didn’t comment, but it looked a lot like she wanted to rip the Quartermaster a new one.  Sadly - and wisely - Q never contacted her, only her agents.  

~^~

Bond swore colorfully as the car he was following swerved sharply, making a turn that was nearly impossible to follow.  Days like this, 007 preferred fighting face-to-face, hand-to-hand, with one of Silva’s Augments.  

“Bond, are you still following?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he gritted with poor patience.  He turned his own car so sharply that he probably took the entire turn on two wheels, and traffic all around him was set into an uproar of honking horns and squealing tires.  He’d lost ground, but technically he was still following.  “After a fashion.”

Tanner’s voice was in his ear next, assuring, “We’re pulling in traffic footage now.  There’s a bit of a delay, but we should be able to-”

“I can’t stand by and watch this travesty anymore,” came a faintly bored mutter, startling everyone - not least of which being 007, but he kept himself centered, all of his focus on weaving through traffic at inadvisable speeds.  “007, if you want to catch your target, then you’re going to listen to me.  Can you do that?”

“I’d listen to anyone by this point if it would yield better results than this,” retorted Bond through gritted teeth as he watched the traffic light ahead, hoping it didn’t cut him off.  If it did turn red after his target’s car but before his, he’d have to run it, and as quaint as that sounded, he knew how...annoying...it would be to be stuck in a vehicular accident.  “So start talking, Q.”

There was a pause that indicated the Quartermaster was surprised at being recognized so quickly, since he hadn’t announced or introduced himself - simply butted onto the comm-line and started talking.  He was quick to recover, however, and that was what endeared him most to Bond.  “Take the next right.  I’ll send you on another route to cut them off.  Don’t bother to tell me what car you’re following - I already know.”

Bond huffed something like a laugh as he felt his mood improve minutely.  He loved car-chases, normally, but not in traffic as heavy as this.  Next time he had a target flee him like this, he planned on stealing something more streamlined and versatile - like a motorcycle.  “Should I ask where this shortcut of yours leads?”

“No, you should take the right, and then the second left, and I’ll guide you from there,” was the steady reply.  

Bond took the right, and proceeded as ordered.  Meanwhile, Tanner rather hesitantly came back into the conversation again, “Your target turned onto 17th-”

“I know,” Q cut him off without rancor, but without any particular mercy either, “I’ve got a live-feed.  I’m watching the progress of both your agent and his target.  Be glad that my computer systems are faster than yours.  Bond, next right.”

The heads-up came fast enough that Bond took this turn on all four tires, although still quite fast.  He wouldn’t have it any other way.  “I don’t exactly have a map memorized, but if my target is turning onto 17th, we’re going in opposite directions,” he felt the need to point out.  His hands flexed on the steering wheel, itching to disobey the voice in his ear and act on his own.  He resisted the impulse, however.  

Q’s answer came quickly, with less dryness and more challenge, “Not for long you’re not.  I’m diverting traffic.  They’ll come your way soon enough.”

From MI6’s end of the conversation, there was a general hubbub of startled reactions, an annoying buzz in Bond’s ear that was ended by M snapping something and then abruptly silencing her end of the line - no need for 007 to hear her chewing out the kiddies, after all.  Bond smirked a little, wondering how M was  going to rationalize working with an informant who not only spied via traffic cameras, but had the ability to change the intersection lights.  “I think we’ve underestimated you, Q,” Bond made conversation without breaking concentration, eyes still on the road, every inch of him alert.  “You’re a lot more devious than we thought.”

“Everyone has underestimated me,” Q corrected.  His tone was distracted, as if just stating a widely-known fact.  Bond could imagine him in front of a computer staring a multiple images of the car-chase, hacking traffic lights with half of his attention while the other half talked idly to 007.  “And it’s not a matter of deviousness, it’s a matter of skill.  Controlling the traffic lights is really not so difficult.”

Bond snorted, “So says the Technopath.”

“Hm, yes,” Q absently answered, then grew more animated, “All right - take the turn coming up, and watch yourself.  I’m diverting traffic as best I can, but the butterfly effect of messing with traffic in one place is unavoidably messing it up elsewhere.  Driving conditions may be unpredictable.”

“I can take unpredictable.  Just show me my target.”

“Bossy, aren’t you?  I’ve blocked off two major roads; your target isn’t able to take the route they’d preferred.”  Bond wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a contented, smug, almost purring tone in Q’s voice - one of a man who knows he’s winning.  “You’ll be seeing them soon, at your three o’clock.”

Bond saw the other car at the same time the driver turned his head and widened his eyes through the side-window, catching sight of the MI6 agent in return.  The shocked look on the man’s face was enough to make 007 grin sharkishly.  

“By that truly horrible chuckle you just let out, I’m going to assume you see them.”

“That I do.”  Bond yanked the wheel hard to the right, flagrantly disregarding personal safety as he veered towards his target.  

“Good, because you’d have to be blind to miss them.  I dropped them right on top of you, and they’re in a yellow car, for goodness’ sake.”  Q sounded mildly interested again, a boy watching a television show that he knew the general plot of but not the details or ending.  His professional tone was rather amusing, when combined with that mental image.  

The banter ended suddenly as Bond tuned it out, focusing instead on a silhouette he could see moving in the car in front of him.  He was catching up swiftly, and thanks to Q, the roads were open.  Bond assumed that MI6 - while not quite as up-to-speed as their mystery Quartermaster - would be directing additional cars in his direction, hopefully planning a trap for him to run their prey into.

If not, Bond could run them off the road.  He had no qualms about that.  

Suddenly the silhouette in the car formed a familiar shape, however: that of a gun.  Bond winced preemptively and said, “M, his passenger is bloody armed.”  MI6 would be listening even if they were silencing themselves, and M would understand the situation instantly.  

“What-?” Q started to ask, startled.  

Whatever else he was going to say was lost in the sound of shattering glass as the enemy gunmen shot out their own back window, gaining them perfect access to 007’s car right behind them.  Bond, instead of trying to swerve out of the way, snarled a curse under his breath and braced himself.  

On the traffic cameras, the second car in the chase lost control seconds after its front windshield became a spiderweb of broken glass.  Bullets flew into the car, and 007 cried out reflexively as he felt a bullet tear into his shoulder, then his arm.  The one that smacked into - and through - his chest was the worst, knocking the breath out of him and replacing it with agony.  

The bullet that went into his head was the one that turned everything dark, however.  

~^~

“Agent Bond?  Bond!” came Q’s panicked voice, tinny and sharp in the ear-piece.  MI6 was likewise calling for a report, although M - far more used to her agents being involved in, and killed by, violence - was keeping her side of it under control.  She’d demanded a report and then fallen stonily silent, surviving the deathly lack of response.  

The Quartermaster had been thoroughly shaken from his state of professional detachment, and was clearly putting two-and-two together: he’d heard the gunshots and the cries of pain through the earpiece, and he’d seen Bond’s car swerve suddenly and come to a shaky stop on the curb, leaving a trail of glass behind.  The other car kept going.  “007, there was significant gunfire-”

There was a cough, wet and pained and ragged, the voice that followed  being similar.  “I know, Q.  I was there,” Bond quipped in a voice that had seen better days.  

There was no mistaking the huge sigh of relief that came from Q’s end.  M, notably, made no such noise; if she was surprised, it didn’t show.  “Are you injured?” Q asked, as if he were the one in charge of the mission rather than MI6 personnel, “Where were you shot?”

Bond had slumped in his seat and was righting himself now.  There was blood smeared everywhere, far more than should have come from a living, breathing man.  “The reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated - isn’t that how that phrase goes?”

“Very funny, 007.  I can alert the nearest hospital-” Q was cut off, unexpectedly, by M.  

Her tone was as clipped and cold as always, and she didn’t beat around the bush: “What’s the status of your mission, 007?  Can you still see your target?”

“With my windshield gone, I can actually see quite well,” Bond replied as he flexed his shoulder.  A moment ago, it had had a bullet in it.  For most people, that would have been a problem.  Then again, most people would have been dead from being shot in the chest and head.  Bond worked his jaw, feeling where the bullet had shattered it, although already there was no evidence of that besides a faint stiffness to his speech - easily mistaken for dazedness.  There was a pop as the bone slid correctly back into its socket, and 007 breathed a sigh of relief.  “Back on track.  If you’ve got help waiting up ahead, tell them to get ready, because if someone else doesn’t stop this bastard, I’m going to run him off the road for shooting at me.”

“007, are you sure you should be giving chase?” Q refused to just go away.  “Are you seriously saying that all of those bullets missed you?”

“Yes, I am,” Bond lied confidently as he pressed on the gas again and let the car fly forward, less aerodynamic now but no less capable of driving at breakneck speeds.  “Would I be driving if I wasn’t?”

That got the Quartermaster to pause, considering the statement and testing it for the taste of deceit.  He must not have detected the tang of falsehood, however, because he replied in a wary but accepting tone, “You have a point.  I simply couldn’t see how it was possible for you to be anything but dead, especially after driving off the road.”

“It’s hard to drive when your windshield is flying in at you,” Bond continued to make up excuses while at the same time he felt the hole in his chest...sealing.  It was difficult to breathe, still, but he’d had a lot of practice with pretending that everything was all right until, after a bit more time, it was.  

There was blood everywhere that would eventually prove that he’d been injured, but by the time Bond got his man - yes, driving the obnoxious yellow car off the road, but managing to do so without further injuries to anyone - there were no marks left to prove that he’d been mortally shot only a short while ago.  True, his chest ached something fierce and his other wounds throbbed, but 007 dealt in resurrection, and that was just what he’d done.  

He arrived back at MI6 to be met personally by M, even though he’d come in via the most deserted route possible.  She carried with her a glass of something that looked and smelled delightfully alcoholic, and her face perhaps showed understanding beneath its veneer of austere ice.  “Here.  I figure you deserve this after lying to our Quartermaster so well.”  She handed the glass over.

Bond tried to savor the taste, but ended up mostly just downing the drink.  He stood a moment with his head tilted back, breathing out slowly as he savored instead the numbing cascade of alcohol.  He still couldn’t quite breath without wincing.  

“The pain doesn’t get better, does it?” M observed, watching with her sharp, unreadable eyes.  

Bond just shook his head, eyes still closed, head still tipped back.  “No,” he agreed sarcastically, “being shot full of bullets somehow does not get less painful, although your concern is touching.”

“On your next mission, I’ll be sure that Medical supplies you with your usual painkiller,” M ignored the biting tone of her most unusual agent, arguably the one with the most secrets, “Other than that, I can only suggest that you don’t get shot.”

Finally, Bond lowered his head, a ghoulish grin stretching his mouth, although he answered gamely enough, “I’ll work on that.”

M sighed tolerantly at the look.  “Sometimes, 007, I worry that you’re fond of pain, but at the same time, I tend to think that the pain of healing is the only thing that must keep you from abusing power like that.  If you want more-”  She indicated the empty glass in his hands.  “-The rest is in my office.  You break in often enough that the only way I can see to stop you is to invite you.”  She was already turning to leave, but said sharply over her shoulder, “And be sure you stop by Medical.  Like me, they know that you’re an Augment, but they still seem to worry that you’ll turn up dead if they don’t see to you.  Report in before they start flooding me with questions about your whereabouts.”  

And with that, the most intimidating woman in MI6 walked away, her spine as straight as it had been before the siege of the Augments.  Chaos may have been in the process of triumphing over order, and MI6 might have been a wounded beast in its death-throws, but M was still a force to be reckoned with.  

The fact that she had a one Augment by her side - possibly one of the most indestructible ones in existence, a Deathless - did a lot to help with that.  

Bond took another route to M’s office, which was deserted so that no one saw the blood and the bullet-wounds on the man who had no wounds underneath.  He’d drink until the pain faded, and then endure the prodding of Medical, which was completely unnecessary.  If it would keep M happy, however, he’d endure it, because while Bond didn’t fear death, he feared that woman’s temper something fierce.  

~^~

The mysterious Quartermaster continued to offer priceless assistance to MI6 whether needed: working the underground Black Market when supplies of one kind or another ran low, devising technology that could handle the supernatural powers of the Augments.  Silva had a lot of power at his beck and call, with all of his allies having powers, but Q was wily and, MI6 suspected, a genius.  The danger of being an Augment going up against Augments (something Bond avoided by simply not letting anyone but a select few in MI6 know that he was an Augment) began to show, however.  Contact with Q had always been spotty and defined by a hefty amount of paranoia, but now it was obvious that the Quartermaster was actively on the run some of the time.  Connection with him grew even spottier than it had been before, and on the rare occasion that he butted into the comm-links, he sounded more nervous than stroppy.  

“Life getting a little tough, Q?” Bond asked, not unsympathetically.  He was moving in London’s underground relying almost exclusively on tech and direction that the Quartermaster had provided.  MI6 hadn’t heard from Q in over two weeks, but had heard about Silva’s Augments attacking an old apartment complex seemingly at random.  There was no evidence that Q had ever been there to begin with, but there was also no other reason that MI6 could find to explain why the place had been attacked.  Silva knew that one of his own kind was working against him, and he didn’t like it.  

“This may come as a surprise to you, 007, but creating anti-Augment technology does not endear me to Silva’s rebels,” Q replied.  Most of the time, Q was professional to a fault, but no one with ears could withstand Bond’s charming, conversational tone for long, and Q usually gave in and chatted while Bond worked and Q...did whatever he did that allowed him to flawlessly direct the agent.  MI6 usually listened for awhile before Tanner or M tried to get Bond to cut back on the chit-chat and work, but this time, their own connection to 007’s earpiece hadn’t proved strong enough to reach Bond this far underground.  Q had no such problems, but Q was a Technopath of unknown strength and power.  

Because this mission was mostly reconnaissance and unlikely to get interesting anytime soon, Bond picked idly at the mystery that was the Quartermaster.  “Then why do you do it?  Seems to me you could live quite happily somewhere quiet and secret.”

“Tempting,” Q allowed, “But I apparently have an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong, and somehow, you ended up in the former category.”

“Flattery, Q, I’m impressed.”

“Ha.  Ha.  Actually, I just saw early on that the problem of Silva wouldn’t just go away if it was ignored, and since I had no intention of joining him, the only option was to work against him.  Happy?”  Q’s tone shifted faintly until Bond thought he detected wry amusement.  “I can smell your curiosity from here.”

“You could always just turn up at MI6’s doorstep, you know,” Bond hinted, not so much because he wanted Q in MI6 clutches, but simply because - as Q had intimated - he felt a burning curiosity that was hard to ignore.  He just wanted to stand toe-to-toe with the man who could change traffic lights and train a dog to deliver anti-Telekinetic egg-timers.  MI6 was finally getting close to finding a face to put to the Quartermaster, but Bond rather wanted to meet him face-to-face.  Call him old-fashioned, but that was the short and long of it.  “You could even bring Kaleb with you.  It would annoy Medical.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” was the tense, wary reply as Q’s verbally backed off, the easy banter broken.  Bond sighed, regretting the loss, because it meant walking through the tunnels was now going to be significantly more boring and quiet.  “I’m well aware of my status as an Augment, and I’d rather not test prejudices by turning myself into an organization tasked with hunting Augments.  If I change my mind, though, you’ll be the first to know.”

The last sentence was said in a dry, mollifying tone - a mere joke, really, but Bond caught onto it with a smirk and a cheeky reply of his own, “I feel honored.  Is it because of my charm that I get the honor of being your favorite contact?”

“You’re not my favorite contact,” was the tetchy reply, “You just break the greatest number of my things, so I can’t forget you.  Now take a left and find the stairs - this mission is a waste of your time, and you may as well get back up into the daylight where you can actually do some good.  Honestly, can’t MI6 get good enough intell to realize that Silva doesn’t use these tunnels…”

~^~  

“Bond.  Return to Headquarters.  Now.”  

Once again, Bond had slept with his earpiece in, catching up on rest that he’d missed while undergoing a particularly hellish mission in which he’d tracked down an Ephemeralist and a Petro - an Augment who could put voices in people’s heads and another who controlled stone.  It had been a rough mission in which Bond had come very close to dying on numerous occasions.  He still imagined he felt a stiffness in his back from the shattered vertebrae he’d suffered from.  The Petro was now in a maximum-security cell and the Ephemeralist was in a coma, however.  

Bond sat upright the instant he heard M’s voice in his ear, her tone far sharper than usual.  “What is it?”  He was already reaching for his car-keys and grabbing his coat.  His gun he’d never actually taken off, simply because he’d gotten used to sleeping with the discomfort of the harness.  

“Q,” was all M said, “We finally got a face, but Silva also finally got him.”

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slow starter - sorry! but I promise, the next chapter is when things truly get moving (i.e. things get a lot worse very quickly...)
> 
> I've got a few more chapters written already, so I should post every few days, at least until I catch up with myself.


	3. The Fall of Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has been captured at long last - by Silva. It's 007's mission to find and retrieve him. That may be harder than he'd expected...
> 
> Or the chapter in which 007 and Q finally meet face to face...and neither is honestly happy about it. Enter Silva...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This is the chapter the 'non-con' tag warns for! You don't read the actual event, but this chapter contains rape aftermath. I still promise a happy ending, but it gets dark now for a bit

“We finally realized that the reason we haven’t ever seen the Quartermaster’s face is because he’s got programs running that erase him from the system almost as soon as a camera gets a look at his face,” Tanner said, having to walk quickly to keep pace with Bond as the two strode through MI6, Bond’s face set and his body already tight with the impending readiness for a mission.  In this case, a unique mission with a whole new level of risk.  “The only way we knew this was when that program failed - presumably because it took constant supervision.”

“And when Silva found Q, that supervision was cut off,” Bond guessed easily, seeing how the two facts intertwined.  

“Yes,” nodded Tanner regretfully, “So we’ve got mixed feelings about the circumstances under which we’ve finally gotten a lead on our mystery provider.  

“Let me see his face,” Bond demanded without slowing down, heading to Medical.  He’d already been at the other side of MI6, being outfitted with supplies for this sudden mission.  A photograph was instantly handed to him, having been intended for him to see.  Bond narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, viewing the narrow, angular face with its sharp cheekbones and large, alert eyes hidden behind glasses.  The face was younger than he’d expected, and the wild tangle of dark hair was surprisingly unkempt for a man who talked as if he arranged his sock-drawer according to color.  

“We need him found, 007,” M had said the instant Bond had arrived.  The woman had look tense and worn around the edges - worn enough that emotion was showing through.  She tried to hide it, but it was obvious that this sudden loss of their mystery benefactor had rattled her.  “Not only does Q have access to some of our most vital systems, but his powers alone will make him a great danger if he’s converted to Silva’s way of thinking.  If not, he’s an asset, one which I would most certainly like to have back.”

“And if he has been converted?” Bond asked in the cold tone of a killer.  His face was a mask, likewise cold and detached.  

M’s face was just the same, only her eyes were as bright and cutting as glass.  “Then he is to be treated as an agent gone rogue.  But 007?”

“Yes?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if at all possible, refrain from using lethal force.  This Quartermaster is one of the most useful assets we’ve had in a long time, and if at all possible, I’d like to have him back safely in one piece.  Is that understood?”

M and Bond didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but for once, they agreed.  “Perfectly.”

“Good.  Now report to Tanner.  He’ll brief you on the course of action we’ve decided is best for retrieving the Quartermaster.  I hope all of your recent car-chasing and gun-fighting hasn’t left your infiltration skills rusty.”

“I wouldn’t call them rusty,” Bond hedged while his eyes narrowed suspiciously, sensing what M was getting at but not wanting to accept it.  

M must have seen the leery look in her agent’s blue eyes, because she sat down behind her desk and broke the news to him bluntly, “MI6 needs you to infiltrate Silva’s group.  That’s the reason you were chosen - because you’re the only Augment we’ve got.”

~^~

It had turned out that mere infiltration was only the surface of it.  Despite his general exploits as MI6’s most trigger-happy agent, Bond’s face was still fairly unknown in the wider circle of Silva’s Augments, and simply by revealing that he himself had gifts, Bond could have won himself a place in their little revolution.  Despite the talk about his skills being ‘rusty,’ Bond was a natural at pulling on a persona and living in it as if it were another skin, and the only reason M hadn’t used him to infiltrate the Augments before was because it hadnt’ seem worth it - Bond was her trump-card, and he as most useful so long as Silva was unaware that MI6 had a Deathless in their employ.  Plus, even after all this time, no one knew what breed of Augment Silva was, so sending Bond in was a lot like sticking your arm down a dark hole without knowing if there were snakes down it.  

That was still what it felt like.  There were certainly a lot of snakes around.  

Bond learned a few things very quickly: one being that Q was not cooperating with Silva.  That was good, at least for Bond and MI6.  Bond didn’t have to kill the brilliant, dryly humorous man he’d gotten used to hearing in his ear, and MI6 didn’t lose any secrets.  However, Q himself was getting the bad side of the deal, because his lack of cooperation had lowered him considerably in Silva’s standing.  Apparently, Q had gone swiftly from annoyance, to prized catch, to useless trash in the space of time it took Bond to weasel his way into the Augment ranks (which was ridiculously easy to do once it became known that he was an Augment himself).  Q was beneath the rebels’ notice now - simply a poor, deluded fellow who’d lost his way and fallen from grace, and fallen hard enough that they didn’t really see any chances of him getting back up again.  

That was when Bond got the idea of making Q worth Silva’s while.  007 slipped into another persona then, one that he was best at - one that included a lot of fancy clothes, aristocratic mannerisms, and money that he sometimes got back.  Sometimes.  Playing a rich man with poor morals had its costs.  

Bond just wished that the costs weren’t going to affect Q, who had gone from MI6’s elusive but valued Quartermaster to an Augment traitor - one that a certain ‘Allistair Black’ was going to try and buy off Silva…

As far as bad ideas went, this was at the top of 007’s list, but all 00-agents knew that a bit of evil was sometimes the price of good in the long-run.  He straightened his tie and prepared to set his plan in motion while Q was still alive.  The clock was ticking.   

“Silva,” Bond drawled, speaking into his phone.  He’d had to kill someone to get this number, but would have felt worse if the man he’d killed hadn’t been a murderer himself.  “I hear you have a particularly intriguing bit of merchandise.  This is Allistair, by the way.”

“Ahhh, Allistair.”  This was the first time that Bond had actually heard the notorious man’s voice; it was smooth as honey and as spine-chilling as skeletal fingers up ones back.  This was the man who’d finally broken the anonymity of Q, dragging him out of hiding and into the nest of vipers that Silva called allies.  “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you heard that I’ve got money?” teased Bond with a false mixture of knowingness and pride - a man who knew he’d get his way.  Mostly 007 was just a man who knew what people like Silva wanted to hear.  “I imagine that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

Silva laughed at the other end of the line, amused and audibly impressed by Bond’s audacity.  “Hmm, perhaps.  It depends on what you’re asking.”

Bond now cut immediately to the point, furthering his assumed character of being a man who didn’t like asking twice, “The Quartermaster.  You’ve got him - and I heard that you don’t want him.”

The reply was preempted by a pause, and Bond held his breath: he wanted to keep Silva on his toes, but he didn’t want to spook him.  It was a fine line between being too pushy and not pushy enough to be believable.  Like all revolutionaries, Silva would be interested in money, but like all smart revolutionaries, he’d be watchful of the hands he took that money from.  “And why would you want the Quartermaster, if I may ask, Mr. Black?  He’s been such good company for the short time we’ve had him.”

Bond sublimated the shiver of sick unease he felt at that last sentence, so laced with content.  On his end of the phone, he kept his tone friendly - as if he were smiling, when in reality his face looked a lot more like that of a particularly determined serial killer.  “I don’t want him to use against you, if that’s what you’re asking.  I’m no fool.”

“Good, good.  I like a smart man,” Silva congratulated, not bothering to make threats because he was fully aware of his own dangerousness.  However, he seemed to like to play with his food (or, in this case, people considering giving him money for something of his), because Silva added without a touch of hesitancy, “We were actually considering selling him on the slave market.  It’s all very hush-hush, but I’ve got some contacts.  We’d have to completely knock out Q’s powers first, of course, but he’s such a pretty boy.”

Despite the roiling pit that his stomach had become, Bond created a low, throaty laugh and didn’t hesitate any more than Silva did - that was just how the game was played.  “Well, how about this then: on the slave market, people would pay for his body.”

“And you?”

“I’d pay for his body and his powers,” Bond replied as smoothly as drawing a blade across skin, wishing he weren’t so good at this, “I’ve got plenty of illicit operations that would benefit from the help of a Technopath, and I’ve plenty of more personal occasions that I daresay would benefit as well.”

That was what did the trick, as Silva’s laugh exploded through the phone’s receiver yet again.  “I like you, Allistair.  I think we could get along rather well.”  

‘ _Maybe after I put a few bullets in you_ ,’ Bond growled lethally in his head.  

“Come on by - I’ll give you the address - and we can discuss payment.  Q happens to be regretting his decision not to join my cause, but I’ll be sad to see him go nonetheless.”

When Bond ended the call a few minutes later, he found his finger itching to pull a trigger.  Wasting no time, he got up and pulled on his coat, making sure he looked the part of a prospective ‘buyer’ before swiftly getting into his car and peeling away.  After a few more off-hand comments from Silva - all of which were tainted by a slightly sexual, playful tone - Bond had the unsettling feeling that Q didn’t have a lot of time to spare.  

~^~

When Bond entered the room and came upon the Quartermaster, the elusive Technopath was a wreck.  It was enough to nearly make the 00-agent stop in his tracks, and it took a massive force of effort to keep strolling forward as if he felt nothing at the sight of the man across the room, who stood as if he could no longer tell what parts of him were broken and what were whole.  The room was packed with Augments, and by the look of burns on Q’s body, he’d met up with at least a Pyro; the Quartermaster’s skin was also jumping with sparks, reminding Bond suddenly that Q’s Technopathic powers meant that he was, in a way, part machine.  Before he could think more on this, Silva’s smooth voiced sailed blithely over to him, “You see, when Q here didn’t want to cooperate, so we had to work around that a bit, sad to say.”  Q, across the room, shivered.  His clothing was all eskew, rumbled and wrinkled in a way that Bond knew meant hands fisted in the material, either often or for a long time; even more sickeningly telling was the way his belt hung from his trousers.  Bond didn’t have to raise his eyes to know the broken, shattered look he’d see in the Technopath’s large green eyes.  Silva was still talking: “Now, the burns we must blame on Rupert-”

James looked over at the man Silva indicating, doing his level best to hide the disgust and hatred that wanted to climb all over his face.  A wiry man with a lecherous smile looked back at him, and Bond recognized him from lists of targets - the Pyro in question.  That explained the patches of red all over Q’s skin, singed spots also visible on his clothes, although Rupert apparently had a lot of control of his skill to do all that without also immolating his victim entirely.  

“His particular skill with flames did a stunning job of reacting with Q’s powers, although we’d already used a controlled electrical surge to take him down in the first place.”  And that explained how the elusive figure of the Quartermaster - as wily and hard to catch as an otter in water up until now - was here, amidst this pack of wolves.  Silva came up beside Bond and put an arm around his shoulders, and Bond pasted a smile on his own face was was an exquisite lie.  “The result is quite interesting, really,” the pale man mused, eyes devouring the figure that was barely standing in the corner, held up by the walls and too battered to move away from them for anything, “Thinks of it as being skinned and having all of your nerves raw.  Technopaths like him have an internal electrical system, did you know?  I think that Rupert stripped all the wires when it was his turn to play with him.”

‘ ‘ _His turn_ ’,’ Bond’s mind repeated with growing wrath.  This was a mission he couldn’t mess up in the name of emotions, however - especially since showing his true feelings about this atrocity would give him away and likely sentence both him and Q to death in this situation.  So he kept the cool smile on his face and a facsimile of interest in his eyes that matched the wicked hunger in the room.  

“I’ll understand if you don’t want him,” Silva added, “Damaged goods and all that.”

007’s mind had been planning this whole time, part of his brain taking a step back from the reflexes of his expression and manner to just think.  Now he mentally centered himself and acted.  Perfectly playing the rich man with twisted tastes - and a pocketbook to pander to them - he strolled out from under Silva’s arm without hesitation.  He made a smile of interest curl his mouth as he kept his eyes on Q, who was making small noises as he tried to breath through panic and pain.  “I never said I didn’t want him still,” he replied smoothly.  The effect of Q’s treatment on his abilities was clearer up close, as Bond closed the distance languidly between them and saw where the wires in Q’s flesh were sparking at the outside air.  This was bad.  Bond sighed internally, realizing that he’d definitely have to use the inhibiting drug M had given him - and probably the painkiller, too, although that had been for Bond in case of an emergency.  

Q’s eyes were trying to move to him, but clearly it was hard.  Standing looked like it was hard, and Bond suspected that the Quartermaster was only standing because his legs had locked up and his brain was telling him frantically that he’d be more vulnerable on the floor.  

“Come now, Q, look a little bit more alive!” Silva called out unhelpfully as everyone else - clearly enjoying the spectacle - chuckled, “This is your new master you’re looking at, pet.  An Augment like us.”  

The voice sounded so encouraging, but Q whimpered, a high keening noise as he backed further against the wall.  Even though he still had his glasses (and Bond remembered MI6 telling him that Q couldn’t see terribly well without them), Q was having a hard time focusing, but at the declaration that Bond was an Augment like the rest of them, renewed fear flushed the Quartermaster.  Behind his smile, Bond clenched his jaw and resigned himself to the fact that this was going to be supremely unpleasant, but he couldn’t see any way around it without blowing his cover.  So he slid up close to Q, probably as others in this very room had done only recently - Bond didn’t plan to go as far as they had, however.  Q had been hurt enough, and even for the sake of keeping them both alive, Bond wasn’t going to rape him.  

Not that Q knew that, and Bond couldn’t very well tell him.  

“When I heard you had something worth my money,” Bond called back to Silva in a pleased, charming tone, “I didn’t honestly expect something this pretty.” 

“Ah, but you only asked about what he could do!” Silva pointed out.  “Then again, we might have rather ruined that facet of him as well...but he’s still a warm body, yes?” came the wicked afterthought, smooth as spoiled honey on Silva’s tongue.  Even as Bond closed in on Q, near enough to make a carnal interest clear, no one left the room.  Then again, if they had no compunction against raping and beating a fellow Augment, then voyeurism probably didn’t even register with them.  Close enough to be swallowed by Bond’s shadow, Q was nearly hyperventilating in sobbing gasps, a crippled scarecrow of fire-touched skin and bruised eyes against the wall.  

Bond hardened his heart against what he was going to do, and promised to make it all as painless as possible.  

He pushed himself the last few feet forward, until his body was pressing Q’s to the wall.  He immediately found out just what it meant for Q’s powers to have been so shredded - to the point of making him inadvertently hypersensitive - because the Quartermaster’s eyes slammed shut and he screamed.  By the weak rawness of his voice, he’d just about run out of screams.  Grimly, Bond noted that that was for the best.  So deftly that no one had a hope of noticing, he palmed the removable caps on the buttons of his left sleeve, both of them; this revealed a minute needle in each (little more than a thumb-tack) connected to the drugs Bond had carried with him.  No one removed the buttons of rich men’s shirts, and while only one of these had been meant for Q (a drug to turn off his power completely should he resist being taken to MI6), Bond didn’t hesitate to press both uncovered needles into Q’s arm while the Quartermaster was distracted by the raw sensation of Bond brushing against his damaged nerves.  To the outside viewer, Bond’s arm merely pressed against Q’s tensed, quaking body, further hemming him in.  The caps were back on the buttons as soon as the deed was done, and Bond hoped that the drugs would be fast-acting...or else he worried that Q would go insane just from the pain of being touched.  He backed off just a bit, ostensibly to talk to Silva and his watching men, “You’re lucky I don’t mind using something that others have touched.”  It felt sick and wrong to say it, but he layered in a level of lethal threat that was entirely true, making himself sound more like a controlling, jealous lover than a furious 00-agent who wanted nothing more than to kill everyone in the room.  He still didn’t know what Silva’s power was, however, and that made the risk of actual violence too great.  Not to mention Rupert was reported to be horrifically powerful, and even healing like James had wouldn’t stop him from feeling the pain of being hit by an inferno.  

Silva’s eyes were cunning, watching Bond with a look that was too curious for James’s liking.  “I’m surprised,” Silva noted, to Bond’s dismay, “I’d expect that a man like yourself would buy only the finest companionship.  Not that I want to give your money back, of course.”

Pasting on another grin that was a mask of ice across his face, Bond repeated, “Of course,” through slightly-gritted teeth.  While he was looking over his shoulder, Bond had kept his body facing Q, arms bracketing him - it looked confining, but really it was because Bond was afraid he’d lose the smaller man any second if he wasn’t careful.  

It looked like he’d have to be more convincing if he was to keep that from happening.  Years at his job had made James one of the best liars around, and over the years he’d played many roles, making it easy to mimic the cruel, rapacious grin that he was seeing so much around the room.  Silva had truly picked ruthless men for his cause, and Bond would have to prove that he was the same.  “I have diverse tastes.  I hope you can understand that,” the words rolled off his tongue, and he only shuddered on the inside as Q tried to move away but stumbled, too battered and weak.  Without looking, Bond shifted a hand to grip one of the Quartermaster’s arms, breathing a silent inhale of relief as Q didn’t scream this time - the drugs were kicking in.  Hopefully no one would notice, so long as Bond played his end of the game right.  He continued to lie, “I happen to like what you’ve done with him.  Saves me the trouble of breaking him in, I’d say.”  And then, because Silva was still watching with those judging eyes of his, Bond turned back to face Q, looking at the bruised and tear-streaked face.  Q’s head was turned away stiffly, that being the most defiance he could muster in his current condition, and Bond reached up with a hand and tugged Q’s chin around, undoing even that.  

It was horrible: Q’s pupils were unstable in a way that hinted at a head injury, mostly shrunken down to pinpricks but dilating and closing again fractionally every few seconds as if on the verge of hitting madness.  There was blood at the outer edge of one eye from a nick to his eyebrow, to say nothing for the angry red and purple tones about his face from physical assaults.  It was the more personal bodily assaults that Bond was worried about, as he looked at those traumatized eyes and wondered if the Quartermaster would ever come back from this.  Q didn’t recognize him in person, it seemed, but 007 had seen him in pictures and knew him intimately despite never meeting face-to-face...and it should never have come to this.  Torture like this was inhuman, and Q didn’t deserve it.  

‘ _Follow my lead_ ,’ Bond mouthed as clearly as possible without risking anyone else noticing.  The first reaction outside of crushing fear flitted across Q’s face then, a quirk of his eyebrows that indicated surprise, right before Bond’s hand on his chin angled his head up, and then 007 was kissing him.    
  


~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the story finally picks up speed ;) Sorry for the cliffhanger! I'll remedy that...in a few days...


	4. How Many Sins Can We Conscience?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond cannot break cover if he wants to get himself and Q out alive. Unfortunately, Q's mind might not be able to last throughout the act...
> 
>  
> 
> Or the chapter in which things manage to actually get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas where I am - and I got a bit of time for posting! So here's my present to anyone who's reading :) Truthfully, it's a rather horrid present, considering that there's not a lot of 'happy' in it... 
> 
> Just so you know, the WARNING for non-con references is still in effect! This is the continuation of the last cliffhanger, obviously.

It was expected, but it still tore something in Bond’s chest to hear and feel Q screaming into his mouth, trying to push him off in panic.  The drugs Bond had forcibly given the Technopath would have alleviated the worst of the pain he was in, but they’d also shut down his abilities completely, leaving him nothing but his own body to fight with - which wasn’t much, even before one took into account his physical injuries.  Q pounded weakly at Bond’s chest as 007 ruthlessly kept their lips sealed together, allowing the flurry of clumsy blows because it would add to the effect.  If Bond went soft on the captured Quartermaster now, the gig would be up, which meant Bond had to act heartless and Q had to hate him.  

He could hear people chuckling sickly, a few making lewd comments, and if 007 could hear it, Q likely could, too.  Weakened as he was, Q had already stopped pushing at him, and his screams had turned to whimpers as he uselessly tried to get away from the larger man’s conquering mouth.  Bond imagined he could taste humiliation on the inside of Q’s lips, and the constant shivering of Q’s frame was a message of growing horror: ‘ _It’s going to happen again_.’

007 wanted to tell him that it wasn’t - that no one else was going to forcibly violate him - but couldn’t.  Instead, he settled for pulling his mouth away, shifting his body and leaning in impossibly closer.  Now that he knew that Q wouldn’t be inundated by pain from every nerve being touched, Bond moved them together until Q’s back was flush with the wall and his front with Bond’s body.  Q was decidedly un-aroused, but Bond hoped that Q noticed the feeling was mutual - if anything, James tried to curve his body considerately, so that he looked like he was smothering the Quartermaster when he really wasn’t.  Honestly, he was trying to make sure Q didn’t collapse.  Likewise, he made a show of possessively nuzzling Q’s throat (feeling the fluttering, frantic pulse) and nosing back to his ear, but all he was saying was, “Shhhh, shhh…I’m sorry.”  Soft, apologetic syllables that wouldn’t escape the nest of Q’s tangled hair.  If he was going to have to ravish Q in front of all these watching eyes, he could at least do it as respectfully and gently as possible.  

It was, of course, impossible to tell if Q was even in a condition to understand English right now, but he sucked in a ragged sob and let it out as a quieter whimper as Bond just breathed against his ear instead of biting or kissing it.  Rupert’s fire had done a good job of putting patches of first- and second-degree burns all over Q, so even with his powers mercifully turned off and a painkiller in his system, love-bites would have been a greater trial than Bond could conscience putting him through.  Still, he had to convince Silva of the act, or at least keep everyone entertained, so he reluctantly caught Q’s mouth again.  As before, the Quartermaster instantly tried to escape him, keening a barely understandable, “Nooo…!” before Bond effectively swallowed the sound himself.  Q attempted to pull his head back and wrench it free, but Bond had already pushed him right to the wall, and one of Bond’s hands on the smaller man’s head kept it still.  Everyone seemed delighted by the vicious and unabarrassessed nature their new companion was showing, watching the rough kiss - and when Q twitched and squeaked, they just assumed that Bond had bitten his mouth or something.  

In reality, while everyone was watching higher up, they missed how Bond had used his free hand to grip Q’s, seeming to restrain the limb but really taking the opportunity to rub a soothing pattern into his palm.   _‘I’m sorry,’_ the circular motion said as it repeated throughout the whole, horrid kiss: one circle clockwise, then reversing it counterclockwise, only to repeat again.  He had learned by now that the Quartermaster was an analytical man, and he hoped that the stability of an unvarying, repetitive sequence would anchor him.  Or at least distract him from what Bond was doing with his mouth.

When he judged it right, Bond drew back once more, letting the sound of Q’s ragged gasps hide his own hushed voice as he once again ducked in close to Q’s ear to drop words in his hair: “I’m sorry…  Shhhh…  You’ll be all right…”  The last was probably a lie, but James was a good liar, and his tone said that he would do his best to make it true, if he could.  Raising his voice, he addressed Silva again, going from gentle to languidly irritated.  James asked over his shoulder, “Could I bother you for someplace more private?  I might not mind that you’ve ruined his powers a bit, but I’d still like to see what I’ve bought.”

“Don’t want to share?” Rupert answered from across the room, sending up a smattering of laughter that had Q shuddering in Bond’s arms as if he were about to fly apart at the seams.  Bond resisted the urge to curl him into a protective hug, instead keeping himself in place as if he were trapping him instead of defending him.  The closeness of their bodies was clearly unsettling Q - having every inch of his body touching that of another man, nearly from knees to chest, and a quick flick of Bond’s eyes (back at Q) informed him that there was blood trickling down Q’s chin - not from Bond biting him or breaking skin in any way, but because the Quartermaster was biting his lower lip so hard that his own teeth had scissored through the soft flesh.  Everyone else looked like they blamed it on Bond, but 007 was the one who truly realized how hard it was for Q to keep from shrieking hysterically for all of this to just end.  007 was running out of time: he’d seen minds break before, and if Q’s hadn’t yet, it was hovering there.  One wrong touch would send it over the edge.  

Silva finally answered the question, congenial as a spider in its web.  “Of course, Mr. Black!  You needed only to ask.”  In one of his mercurial moods, the smile vanished to be replaced by a serious, questioning look, as he asked in all soberness, “You’re sure you don’t want to go back on your deal?  I’m truly sorry that we had to mangle him a bit.  The Quartermaster has made it clear that he won’t work for us against MI6, but I’m sure we could put him to other uses.”

James put on a wicked, slow smile and trailed a hand up Q’s arm, feeling Q’s hard flinch in every inch of him.  Somehow, he managed to drawl nonchalantly nonetheless, “So can I.”  Bossiness was something Bond was good at when he wanted to be, even if he felt like a monster as he demanded without ever losing the suggestive smile, “Find me a room.”

“Fine, fine,” Silva acquiesced with his broad smile, and Bond backed up a bit from Q at long last, his sigh of relief completely silent.  For a moment, Q probably felt the deep rise and fall of his chest, but then there was finally some space between them, some room for the damaged Quartermaster to shudder in.  He was still sunk against the wall, a broken kite propped in place until it was carted finally to the trash, and Bond wished he could tell him that that wasn’t what he was going to do - that he wasn’t going to just throw him away at long last.  

“Rupert, Moreland - help our friend move his purchase, will you?” Silva called out like he was a benevolent king, and it was all Bond could do to hold still and watch as the two men detached from the grisly crowd to come towards him and the Quartermaster.  This was a dangerous moment, because Bond could give himself away too easily - at the same time, it would be a perfect opportunity for Silva to take control of the situation (i.e., take control of the battered Quartermaster) if 007 had _already_ given himself away.  Bond was forced to stand idly by with that ghastly smile still on his face like a poison-limned mask as the two men bypassed him, each latching onto one of Q’s arms.  The Quartermaster had already been wild-eyed, and proved that he had some fight left in him as he shouted, “Let me go!” in a voice that sounded as if it had been dragged over broken glass.  He jerked with what weak strength he had left, but Rupert - the Pyro - just bared his teeth with a grin and pulled fire out of thin air.  

Q screamed as a wave of red raced up his arm towards his head, the flames seemingly sentient as they danced mere millimeters from his skin and refused to catch on his clothes.  They were still close enough to immediately redden his skin, however, and there was the nasty smell of singed hair even as Q hurriedly squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away.

Bond had had about all he could take.  

Aware of how he’d have to tie this somehow into his assumed role, Bond nonetheless showed absolutely no hesitation or conflicted emotion as he ripped Rupert free of Q and slammed the Pyro against the wall.  Bond’s eyes were full of death even as he growled in a voice like an avalance, “Don’t damage my things.”

Rupert looked outraged, and without warning - but with a vindictive smile that said he was used to getting his way like this - latched a hand onto Bond’s wrist and wreathed it in flame.  This time, the flames weren’t in any way delicate.  Instead, like vicious little fingers, they tore right through his sleeve and dug into his wrist with white-hot knives pain.  

Bond’s particular abilities meant that he healed at an impossible rate, but it sure didn’t do anything for the pain.  Still, this one time, he clamped his jaws shut and refused to let so much as a groan get past him - he’d faced worse, and he’d face worse again, and right now seemed a perfect time to strike a little fear into the hearts of his enemies.  The flames were only there for a second (a sign that Rupert had been using his powers quite a lot recently - a good thing for Bond, who’d take full advantage of that), but they were so hot and controlled that they left a blistered, roasted mess behind.  Where Rupert had gripped Bond’s wrist, there was cooked meat and black-charred flesh to the bones, and Rupert’s grin in his face.

But then Bond - whose face had been a hard, strained mask - managed to pull out a replying smirk, as hard and sickly and vicious as poison over a broken knife of glass.  Silva had taken in a breath to chastise Rupert, but at the terrifying grin spreading across Bond’s face, he stopped.

As Rupert stared, disbelieving, the redness at the edges of the ugly wound began to recede, and then what had been blackened flaked off to reveal healing skin beneath.  Everything began to retract like time reversing, and Bond fixed his smile on his face through the whole agonizing process, aware that he’d been tortured multiple times and had watched his own body piece itself back together before.  In but a few moments, the pain was fading to nothing, and he shook his hand loose of Rupert’s stunned grip and punched the man square in the face.

People protested that, even as Rupert crumpled to the floor, but Bond hadn’t killed him.  He wanted to - dearly - but that would probably lose him Silva’s good will too early in the game . So instead 007 turned from the Pyro’s unconscious body and walked away.  He let his eyes skate over to Silva, to see how the man took the damage done to his minion, but Silva looked amused and pleased, if anything.  Still, Bond explained himself, if only to the room at large, “I might not be picky about the things I take to bed-”  Referring to Q as a thing, and of no consequence, hurt but was necessary.  “-But I’ll admit to a bit of possessiveness.  I bought him.  He’s mine.  Is that a problem?”

“Not a problem at all, Mr. Black,” Silva spoke for everyone else, calm where they were edgy and nervous.  Most were staring at Bond’s wrist, which still lacked a sleeve, obviously, but was completely unblemished save for some white scarring that already looked months old.  Only the worst wounds left a permanent scar - like the time that Moneypenny had shot him and nearly killed him.  “Come - I imagine that my comrades have realized how best to escort your newest acquisition,” he added with a totally unsympathetic glance at Rupert, who had yet to stir.  No one moved to help him, although a few eyed him in a manner reminiscent of vultures.  Bond wondered what would happen if they left the man here unprotected, and then decided he didn’t care.  It would be fitting, after what was done to Q.  

Q protested with a broken cry as he was dragged away from the wall, another man having come up to take Rupert’s place - someone who was smart enough not to overstep his bounds and face Bond’s wrath.  Still, it was with callous, impersonal strength that the two men hauled Q forward, impervious to injuries that made the Quartermaster stumble.  Bond gritted his teeth and forced himself to take no notice, judging that Q would at least survive the walk...hopefully.  He followed behind and bit back a growl of fury as Silva fell into step beside him.  

“I can’t begin to tell you how disappointed I am - we all were! - when the Quartermaster made it clear that he wouldn’t help us,” Silva sighed, as if Q were not walking a mere meter in front of them and no doubt listening, “The whole plan with catching him, after all, was to use his Technopathic abilities to break into MI6.  But-”  Silva made a humming noise that somehow expressed his discontent as he shook his head sadly at the Quartermaster - as if feeling Silva’s eyes, Q shuddered and missed a step, staying upright only because the two men holding him were steady.  “-With him so adamant not to turn to our cause, it was too dangerous to let him use his powers.  In a case like, Q, a rare Technopath, he can sadly do whatever he wants once his power is turned on, and no one will be the wiser until he or she is either helped or betrayed.”

“Betrayal would be tiresome,” Bond agreed, crossing his arms behind his back to express confident ease.  His stride was smooth and his face bland, and if he was watching the back of Q’s head intently, then it just looked like he was hungrily eying his investment.  “I’m sure I can find the means to ensure his powers don’t turn back on and get troublesome.”  It was hard not to wince as Q whimpered and shrunk in on himself; the Quartermaster was just about out of his mind, but his ears were working torturously well.  

And it was going to get worse before he got better.

“Do you actually have the means of keeping those unique powers of his under control?” Silva asked suddenly, cocking his head to regard Bond askance.  Bond didn’t mention that he’d already turned Q’s powers off, so further help was unnecessary.  Silva took Bond’s silence as encouragement, even though Bond was actually imaging scores of ways to kill him before his next breath.  Sadly, Silva kept talking, and Bond had to keep his killing nature to himself, “We found that electricity seems to do the trick.  A dog’s shock-collar, if you’d believe it - modified a little, of course.”  Bond’s teeth were gritted so hard he thought his back molars would  break, and his eyes were fixed on how Q’s whole back was shaking with repressed fear.  Silva’s narrowed eyes said he’d noticed this as well - his faint smile said it was only egging him on.  “The usual voltage in your petstore shock-collar won’t do much against a Technopath, but that can be changed.  I’ll show you when we get to the room.”

“Splendid,” Bond made himself murmur through his teeth.  

“That room,” Silva snapped his fingers suddenly, and without further ado, the two men hauling Q’s broken body along turned left and all but threw Q into the room.  He landed sprawled on the bed only because the room was small and the bed close, and the Quartermaster’s instant response was to flip himself over and try to roll himself into a ball.  The bed may as well have been acid, and as Q’s mind caught up with him and noticed that it _was_ a bed, he froze utterly, halfway into his defensive posture.  Bond could only imagine what memories his mind was conjuring up now like demons as Q’s breathing became ragged and his eyes went wide behind his askew glasses.  The cut above his eyebrow split open, but Q didn’t so much as blink as one lurid pebble of red slid silkily down past the edge of his right eye.  

Silva had already strode in, bypassing Bond to fetch something off a table - clearly the collar in question, meaning Q had been in this room before.  This was going to go badly, very badly, especially if Silva remained in charge.  

Knowing that he couldn’t be passive in this transaction, Bond waded forward, feeling like the lowest human being on earth.  Necessity was a cruel and bitter draught to drink, and sometimes kindness tasted like poison.  

Emitting an anticipatory growl purely for the benefit of their audience - the sooner he convinced Silva of the upcoming debauchery, the sooner the man would leave, he hoped - Bond moved forward with the swift, smooth gait of a lion towards prey.  There was no way Q could have escaped him or fought him off, but Bond still moved quickly just so that the Quartermaster wouldn't get the chance to try.  The less fuss the better, especially since Bond would be forced to meet any violence on Q’s part with equal if not worse violence in return, for show.  Hopefully this little farce would end quickly...before the last of Q’s sanity snapped…

“Give it to me,” Bond ordered, trying to keep his voice suave while injecting a commanding edge that came much more naturally.  He held out his hand for the atrocious collar even as he steeled himself for the necessity of using it, itching even more to get his hands on the small controller he could also see on the nearby table.  He didn’t want to turn it on - quite the opposite.  If Q had to wear that collar, Bond wanted to make sure that no one else decided to play with the remote just for fun.    

Q had looked like he was suffocating, memories reaching out of the recent past to strangle him with fingers that had lost none of their strength yet to the gentling powers of time.  When his eyes jerked up to Bond, his pupils were shrunken unhealthily to pinpricks that showed off a forest of green in his irises.  As best he could, Bond tried to transmit apology in his own gaze...a second before he shoved Q down onto the bed and swung a leg over him, trapping Q’s arms skillfully beneath his knees.  The blonde agent’s considerable, muscled weight settled across Q’s lower stomach before the other could even do anything more than jerk.  

The following struggle was surprisingly vicious, despite the fact that the advantages were all piled one Bond’s side of the table: Q cursed and swore as he thrashed in any way possible, bony knees grazing Bond’s back and the body beneath him proving far more lean with muscle and sinew than he’d expected.  What finally did the trick of stopping Q’s efforts was a hard hand over his mouth, pinning his head back to the bed and also serving to muffle him before Bond’s ears bled.  Q’s chest continued to heave, and his arms - mottled all over with burns from Rupert - quivered and shuddered as they realized the uselessness of trying to get out from underneath Bond’s legs.  Knowing that the helplessness would sink in quickly, Bond reverted to his earlier trick - the only thing he could think of, outside of talking, that might soften the torment: palm flush over Q’s lips, he traced his thumb subtly and gently beneath Q’s chin.  One circle clockwise, one counterclockwise, then repeated.  He could show no more leniency than that, as Silva was already walking over, eyes alight and smile leaching broadly across his face.  

“You’ll put it on, or shall I?” Silva asked as if Q were a dog, or at least some creature not sentient enough to be part of the conversation.  But the Quartermaster understood everything, and another rift opened painfully in Bond’s heart as he felt a wetness touch the outer edges of his fingers - tears leaking out of Q’s eyes as he sobbed in silence.  Bond wished he could tell him that he didn’t have to be afraid, but instead kept his eyes fixed on Silva.  

“I’ve only got one hand,” he was forced to admit with complete truthfulness, then grew stubborn, “But I’ll give it a try.”  He held out a beckoning hand, and was glad when Silva obligingly dropped the hated thing into his grasp.  Then began the slow process of weaving it under Q’s neck, feeling the cries of terror against his palm as the Quartermaster felt the sensation - apparently familiar.  Silva had definitely modified the shock-collar quite a lot: it looked like he’d taken the basic mechanism and transplanted it onto the kind of collar more usually seen in human bedrooms, accompanied by fuzzy handcuffs.  That meant that the means of securing it was rather more complicated than Bond could accomplish with one hand, but he wasn’t willing to remove his hand from Q’s mouth - 007 had seen and done a lot of things in his life, but he feared that hearing another scream from the Quartermaster might just break him.  Admitting defeat, he sat back, being very, very careful to not let any of his weight actually drop onto Q besides what was necessary to keep him down.  This was no fun lover’s game, played amidst the constraints of love and trust, and Q had already been scarred beyond imagining.  

“Not as dexterous as you’d hoped?” Silva asked cheerfully and completely needlessly.  Bond shot him a glare that he hoped looked impatient, because the rest of his masks were wearing thin.  “Allow me.”

Obviously Silva would know how to affix the collar, and by the way Q froze completely like something shot through with ice, Bond was also willing to bet that Silva was one of those who’d raped him.  Bond had already put the man on his kill-list, but now he moved up to the top of it.  Silva was smirking as he worked, and when he pulled it tight, it predictably was too tight, forcing an uncomfortable whine out of Q’s throat and right past Bond’s hand.  

Unnoticed by Silva, a second after, Bond slipped the two fingers of his free hand out from beneath the leather strap.  Q released a breath that might have exemplified surprise or relief as some of the unbearable tension was alleviated, thanks to Bond’s trick.  It had looked like Bond was holding him still, a hand wrapped around the long column of his throat, but now he released it and let his fingers stroke calmingly down the soft hair at Q’s nape, the collar bearably loose now.

“I’d stay here and watch,” Silva said, with a playful, lethal brightness in his eyes that turned Bond’s stomach over.  He rather hoped Silva wouldn’t.  “But you look to be getting impatient.”

“I am,” Bond flatly agreed.  He put a hand possessively on the middle of Q’s chest.  ‘ _Sorry_ ,’ he said silently to Q as the sexual context continued.  He hoped that the warmth of his hand conveyed as much support as it did anything less savory, because he didn’t move it, either to stroke or dig against the straining frame beneath him.  Q had quieted, and Bond wondered if the smaller man was finally finding his buyer’s subliminal actions weird.  

“Well, then, I suppose the only polite thing is to leave you then,” Silva sighed and rolled his eyes in that over-dramatic way of his.  “But first-”

Bond saw the next move coming a mile away, and died a little inside when he realized there wasn’t really anything he could do to stop it.  Silva scooped up the little device for the shock-collar and depressed the button all in one easy, malicious motion.  

The electrical current actually ripped through the device - its prongs set into Q’s neck right beside his pulse - and hit both of them, but Bond had natural healing abilities that cut off any damage quickly, even if it didn’t technically lesson the pain.  Q, on the other hand, arched right off the bed, and even Bond’s hand wasn’t adequate to stifle that scream.  It was a brief shock, but it was torturously damaging nonetheless: Bond felt that he could have traced every living wire in Q’s flesh as each was lit by an influx of electricity, glowing brighter before they burnt out like doomed, falling stars streaking his skin.  

Before Bond could adequately show his rage, Silva turned and strutted out, calling back brightly over his shoulder, “That should keep nice and behaved until you’re done with him!  No need to thank me!”  The man apparently had a sense of self-preservation, because he disappeared from the room quickly, leaving the remote for the collar behind and closing the door in his wake.  

Bond’s skin was still tingling from the shock, but Silva was a problem for later.  With a final, heartfelt snarl, Bond turned away and back to Q, who finally looked like all the fight had been knocked out of him.  He lay limp and motionless on the bed save for little movements that looked like miniature seizures - his skin twitching in the lingering wake of the shock he’d been dealt.  The whimpers coming thinly past his mouth seemed entirely unconscious sounds, and Bond actually wondered if he was still conscious - at least he was breathing.  Bond was no longer covering his mouth, showing Q’s bloodied teeth as the smaller man peeled his lips back in a pained grimace.  As Bond leaned closer, Q’s eyes closed tighter and he pressed his head away, further to the side, breath stilling in quiet dread to show that he sensed the threatening nearness.  

The fear of the room being bugged urged Bond to lean closer regardless of how imposing this must be, his weight held up by his hands on either side of Q’s twitching shoulders.  He got right to the chase as soon as he was sure that only the battered Quartermaster would hear him.  “The first time we met, you talked to me through a dog.  I asked you how you’d trained it to do tricks like that, and you said that if an agent like me could be trained to do tricks, then surely a dog could.”  His tone had changed drastically, all of the false bravado and sickly interest fled to be replaced by collected, businesslike coolness.

Relief spiralled through Bond’s core as Q gasped lightly - a positive indicator that he remembered the conversation, and therefore hopefully remembered Bond.  007 couldn’t help but shift a hand to pet Q’s hair very lightly, the motion firmly in the realm of comfort rather than impending sex as he soothed down the unkempt dark hair.  His fingers snagged on a bit of blood, and he remembered the very real possibility of Q having a concussion.  “I’m here to help you, despite all of the evidence to the contrary,” he said with a definite, displeased wryness directed at himself as he let Q process this.  Bond’s eyes flicked around the room, trying to see likely places for a bug to be hidden.  Fortunately, he knew from experience that cameras were harder to hide, meaning sound was probably the only thing he had to worry about.  “Now, Q - are you listening to me?  This is going to be important.”

It actually looked as though Q’s mind were rebelling against the information he was receiving, the many, many bad memories precluding the existence of a good one.  He still had his eyes squeezed shut and now had his jaw locked, too, as his brows furrowed in a look of concentration.  This whole time, he’d had his glasses on, and they were so crooked on his nose that Bond had to resist the urge to straighten them.  He kept talking, hoping that his words got through and that Q’s beleaguered brain didn’t shortcircuit, “I’m going to check if the room is bugged, so while I do that, I need you to stay quiet and stay put.  Q, can you understand that?” Great, it was looking more and more likely that Q had slipped into a state of catatonia, and was going to make a wild break for it the second Bond got off him; his eyes were still tightly closed as if he were focusing on a battle in his head, bewilderment and strain tightening the angular, graceful features of his face.  “Q-!” Bond growled emphatically in his ear with a rising panic.  

But then he startled, turning his head back a bit to where Q’s right arm was still securely wedged between Bond’s knee and the bed.  Q had managed to move his limb just enough to turn his hand palm up, and he’d lifted his fingers shakily until they touched 007’s pant-leg.  There, they traced a tentative, timid pattern, but one that Bond recognized immediately nonetheless: one circle clockwise, then another counterclockwise, pausing uncertainly before repeating.  Bond looked back up to find Q just barely tipping his head in a nod.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...a happi _er_ ending? Sort of? There's hope for the sanity of Q! They're not out of the woods yet, but at least 007 is fairly sure that he hasn't broken his Quartermaster. 
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter will be up in a few days! I am scheduled to post a chapter on my Skyfall kidfic this weekend, so I might have to lay off this one until I get that one posted (just for fair warning).


	5. Out of Captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q work together to escape Silva's clutches. 
> 
>  
> 
> Or a chapter with a little bit of tenderness, a little bit of awkwardness, and a little bit of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I'm due to update a chapter of my baby-Q fic, so that took precedence for a bit. Hopefully this chapter will be worth the wait! (You finally get a bit of the 'comfort' side of the 'hurt/comfort' tag.)

Bond blew out a sigh of relief (breath gusting all over Q’s face, but he’d just add that to the list of things he needed to apologize for - a long list indeed) and then rolled with alacrity off Q’s supine form and onto the floor.  He paused just a moment, straightening, because he was worried that Q would run anyway.  Instead, the smaller man just flipped on his side and curled into a ball, still not opening his eyes as if that could somehow keep the world from intruding; Bond could see that he was already wrestling to get the shock-collar off, but at least he was doing it silently.  That was good enough for Bond.  He began silently investigating the room, not pausing until he deemed it ‘clean’.  Silva’s nosiness only went so far then.  

“Okay,” he sighed, chewing at his cheek as he worked out a plan for their next move, “We’re good.  For now.”  His steps brought him back to the bed, and we was faintly surprised when Q rose up into a sitting position.  Although he still looked abused and ruffled, his eyes were open and clearer than before, marginally.  He looked to have descended from the height of panic he’d been in previously.  The collar was still on his neck, though, because the mechanism holding it closed was too complicated for even the Technopath to undo without the help of a mirror.  “I assume you want that off?” Bond asked, pointing towards the collar but hesitating to touch any part of Q or even anything on his person.  Personal contact was something that the Quartermaster had undoubtedly had quite enough of.  

The unkempt nest of brown hair bobbed in an immediate nod.  “Desperately so,” the smaller man croaked.  Showing just how eager he was to have the hated mechanism off his neck, he shuffled forward to kneel at the edge of the bed, only realizing belatedly what a figure he painted: head tipped back and kneeling submissively, himself on the bed and Bond (a handsome, muscled figure) standing dominantly over him.  The Quartermaster flushed brick red and crossed his arms in a mixture of self-consciousness and defensiveness, but didn’t comment or back down.  Bond, smart man that he was, didn’t say anything either.  He just kept his lips wisely sealed and reached forward to obediently take the collar in hand, working it loose.  

Q bared his teeth and hissed as the slight tugging pressed the prongs on the inside against his abused neck, even the painkiller unable to make him completely immune to pain.  “Sorry,” Bond muttered, keeping to his task.  

In response, Q just grunted.  He still didn’t look that good - pale and shaky, eyes narrowed as if against a very-possible migraine - but he was stable enough to distract himself by talking, inquiring with seeming lightness, “So: MI6 wants me now, is that it?”

As good as it was to hear Q talking, Bond was aware that this was still shaky ground.  “Yes,” Bond admitted as he finally made some headway with the intricate collar, “And I can tell you right now, they’ll be kinder than Silva and his cronies.”  The collar finally gave way, and it was Q’s turn to exhale all of his air in relief as Bond tossed it across the room as if it were a snake.  Temper flashed in blue eyes as the agent eyed the collar a moment longer and growled meaningfully, “If nothing else, after all of this, I’ll make sure of it.  I’ve had just about enough of blatant human cruelty.”

Q shuddered, still kneeling on the edge of the bed but relaxing a bit now.  His posture still held a painful stiffness that spoke of internal aches and bruises, besides the more external ones that could be seen as blooms of black and dark purple against his singed skin.  He slouched a little and looped an arm across his middle self-consciously and tiredly.  “Thank you, by the way.”  The voice was so soft that Bond barely heard it, especially since Q had dropped his chin against the rumpled material of his shirt over his chest.  

“For what?” was all Bond could think to say, in his brilliance.  He mentally kicked himself and amended more sensibly, “I haven’t even succeeded in getting you out of here yet, so it’s a bit premature-”

“True, but you got me out of _there_ ,” Q emphasized, head lifting, eyes their sharpest yet.  They fixed on Bond, even though eye-contact should have been terrifying for Q after all that he had received at the hands of men bigger and stronger than him (which Bond was).  Q stubbornly stared at him anyway, continuing to speak even when it got embarrassing and obviously difficult, “I didn’t recognize you until just now, but before...with Silva and the others…”  He cut off as his voice got ragged and he shook, and on impulse Bond moved forward to put a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder.  Instead of jerking away and throwing the hand off, Q only flinched slightly, body lowering a little but eyes turning more calmly to look at the scarred hand.  Q said softly without lifting his eyes, “I noticed that you were...gentle.”

Bond felt a pang of sympathy and sadness in his chest even as he slowly removed his hand.  “I don’t think I deserve gratitude for that,” he said in a low voice, merciless towards his memories of the events, “I’d label what I did as sickeningly necessary, but not gentle.”  Before Q could reply, Bond turned his attention to the marks left on Q’s neck by the modified shock-collar, instantly wincing.  “Bloody hell, Q, that looks bad.  They did that to you before, too?”  

Q sighed, glad for the topic change.  “Actually, tasers, usually.  The shock-collar might be amped up too high, and Silva must have realized that.”  

“Can I take a closer look at it?”  Unexpectedly, Q nodded without hesitation, despite how he should have been afraid of Bond by this point - possibly afraid of everyone.  Bond had been in situations like this (on both sides, victim and outside observer, actually), and knew the way that fear seeped in like a cold, persistent rain to chill everything.  Q was showing remarkable resilience, at least towards the 00-agent he’d only had verbal contact with before.  

Shocked by the trust being given him, Bond froze a moment as Q tipped his head back and to the side again, wincing as the abused skin moved.  Bond didn’t touch, but he moved Q’s shirt-neck aside carefully to get a good view of it, glowering at how the skin was darkened to a deep red that was almost purple, speaking of electrical burns deep into the skin.  There were reddish lines as thin as spiderwebs reaching out from it, and Bond supposed those were actually damaged wiring.  Bond would never get used to the biology of Technopaths…

“If it helps any, your powers were already shut down,” Bond sighed, deciding to completely come clean.  He showed Q the buttons on his one remaining shirt-cuff, explaining as the Quartermaster’s brows beetled, “MI6 didn’t know the extent of the situation, or if you’d come quietly, so they gave me a suppressant for your power.”

Q looked on the verge of angry, but then something clicked in his eyes and he jerked to look at his arm: there were two pinpricks of red, as if he’d been bitten by a small snake, almost hidden against his other injuries.  “Well done,” said Q with a quirk of his eyebrows.

“That,” 007 blinked, “was not the reaction I was expecting.”

“My powers are on overload, Agent Bond,” Q looked up at him to reply flatly, “If they were anything but shut down, I’d be a wreck.  I thought it was strange that I suddenly stopped feeling like one big open wound…”

“I also gave you a painkiller.”  Bond took Q’s arm without thinking to show him the second pinprick, realizing a beat later that he was again touching a man who’d been beaten and sexually violated.  Q didn’t flinch, however, and Bond slowly relaxed, removing his hand in a way that seemed natural rather than apologetic and embarrassed.  “The painkiller was meant for me, but I figured you needed it more.  MI6 wasn’t prepared to find your circumstances quite this bad.”  He tentatively pushed his luck, reaching for Q’s skull to try and find that head-wound he so strongly suspected.  

Q’s eyes got haunted and hollow as he looked away, reflexively pulling away this time.  “I’d expected a little bit of it.  There’s a reason I’ve worked so hard not to get caught by either party.”

Bond sighed, pained by the process of abrading old wounds.  “We’ve got to get moving.  I’ll have to check your wounds later, when we don’t have impending capture hanging over our heads.”  Once again, he found himself touching Q without thinking, this time grabbing both of his arms and lifting him to his feet.  Bond cursed the fact that he was, apparently, a naturally physical man - he’d never considered it before, but now he was realizing just how often he reached out and touched people.  Q had jumped and stiffened this time, but didn’t descend into terror as he steadied himself.  In fact, the Quartermaster gripped Bond’s sleeve as he worked to find his footing.  As Bond turned towards the door, however, Q held his ground and refused to follow.  “Can you walk?” Bond asked, recalling how exhausted and shaky his companion was.

Q’s eyes were fixed across the room, however, looking cold and dogged behind his glasses, which he straightened absently.  “007, if you would please fetch that for me?”  He pointed to the shock-collar, of all things, moving of his own accord on unsteady feet to grab the remote.  

“Do you have a reason for wanting it?” Bond asked in a perplexed tone, but obeyed anyway.  Q was growing more alive by the minute, fully reaping the rewards of having a powerful painkiller in his system and a new hope for survival in his thoughts.  He immediately took the shock-collar from Bond and turned it inside-out, looking it over with quick, detached eyes.  

“Not for the memories, that’s for sure,” was the dry, cold answer, “Lead the way, Bond.  Or are we waiting for something?”

That tone of voice was more like what Bond was used to hearing, and he smirked just a little.  “Just waiting on your command, Quartermaster.  Stay behind me - I doubt that Silva trusts me completely, no matter how much of an act I put on with you.  Do you happen to know what time it is?”

This time, it was the Quartermaster who was caught off-guard, as he followed Bond to the door.  Even though his face creased with befuddlement, however, he had the answer as instantly as a computer, “Just after three.  Why?”

Apparently Q’s sense of time worked independently of his downed Technopath powers.  Bond grinned.  “Oh, nothing.  It was just that MI6 promised to help me out a bit, and they should be in position by now.”  Bond depressed a button on his expensive-looking cufflink (luckily on the arm that Rupert had not tried to roast), finding warm amusement in the way Q looked with instant curiosity at the gadget.  “Another question,” Bond pressed, knowing that allies would be raising Cain very soon to keep Silva’s attention elsewhere.  

They’d stopped at the door, and Q narrowed his eyes at Bond before saying slowly, “Yes?”

“How many of Silva’s men are armed, that you know of?”

Q’s eyes went hard, proving that he knew this answer perfectly well as he answered bluntly, “Nearly all of them.  Silva himself and Rupert are the only two that I didn’t see with a gun, and you took out Rupert.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Bond smiled to himself, loving the memory of his fist on the man’s face, the sensation of cartilage giving under his knuckles.  “Perfect then.”

“Perfect?!” Q squawked, just lowering his voice as Bond put his hand on the doorknob.  Q grabbed his arm to stall him, glaring at the larger man.  “How is that perfect?!  Everyone here is bloody armed, and I don’t care how good a liar you are-”

“Very,” Bond supplied.

“I know,” Q actually admitted without missing a beat, but then he returned doggedly to his argument, “They’re still not going to let both of us out the door!  You don’t even have a gun, and unless your healing ability has another facet I don’t know about, it’s not much of an offensive weapon.”

“Q.”  Bond stopped the tirade by saying the other man’s name forcefully, then daring to put a hand on either of Q’s shoulders.  He once again waited for Q to shake him off, but after looking at both of those hands - hands that had forcibly restrained him, had invaded his space, but had also spared the time to try and calm him and sooth him through it - he instead deflated.  

Actually, he even leaned into them a bit, looking tired.  “What is it, Bond?”

“This is all a good thing, Q, because of two factors - very simple factors,” Bond explained patiently, while half of his mind was pleasantly puzzling over the Quartermaster calming under his hands, “One: I don’t have a gun.  Two: everyone else does.  You think that’s a bad thing-”

“Because they can shoot us and we can’t very well shoot back?  Whyever would I think that was a bad thing?” Q huffed with fracturing humor.  

Worried that Q’s delicate mental balance might tip, Bond hurried to elaborate, “Yes, but I haven’t met a gunshot wound that can kill me yet on the first try-”  He watched as Q’s eyes widened fractionally with realization, recalling the car-chase in which Bond had miraculously been ‘uninjured’.  Apparently he was figuring out the truth now.   “-And I’m going to be in front, so they’ll shoot at me.  And they won’t get a chance to shoot twice.”  Bond smirked faintly, ignoring the fact that this plan would hurt more than he wanted to contemplate, now that the painkiller was not an option.  “And then, while I’m decidedly not dying as planned, all I have to do is take advantage of their surprise and take their gun.  As easily as that, we’ve got a weapon.  See?  All planned through.”  

Q was staring at him as if he couldn’t decide whether he was totally insane or not, or if the world had simply stopped functioning by its usual rules.  His eyes were doing that strange, miniscule dilating and shrinking action again, but when he spoke, it was with level sanity, “And this is why I find so many psych-evaluations in your records, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Most of those are just from coming back from the dead, really.”  And with that, he eased open the door, having been listening this whole time to pick up any noise beyond it.  “And why isn’t Silva armed?”  Good, there really wasn’t anyone in the hallway; as much as Bond could afford to be careless, thanks to his abilities, he was never keen on the pain involved.  Plus, he had a wayward Quartermaster to take care of, who didn’t have the ability to heal from a lethal wound.  

“Because he doesn’t need to be,” Q said in a voice that had suddenly dropped into hushed quiet again.  He’d shrunken in on himself, all of his regained moxie disappearing, speaking in a whisper not because they were in enemy territory but because he seemed to think the words would bite him if he gave them too much life.  He wouldn’t look at Bond, but remembered horror was written plainly in every stiff line of his body.  “Stay away from him.  He might not have a gun, but he’s not unarmed,” was all Q would say, using what Bond thought of as his ‘Quartermaster’ voice.  It was demanding and brooked no argument, but it was a shadow of its normal self today.  Bond figured he couldn’t judge Q for that.  

“All right, we avoid Silva then,” Bond agreed, still wanting to probe at that little bit of information he’d been given.  He was pretty sure that that would be tantamount to probing a bad tooth, however, and he could find out what Q knew later - after they were safely away from here.  “Are you all right to move?  We might have to move pretty quickly, and you’re-”

“-Not an invalid,” Q tiredly saved Bond from trying to explain just how battered Q looked.  “I don’t care if I have to crawl - I am getting out of here or dying trying.”

Bond rather believed him.  “Let’s avoid dying.  And before you reach the crawling stage, kindly warn me, and I’ll pick you up.  You weigh less than most equipment I’m trained to carry.”

“Thank you for that,” Q quipped dryly, but followed close at Bond’s side, limping barely.  Bond cast a worried look back over his shoulder at him, and that was his first slip of the day.

Q’s eyes lifted and then focused past him, widening for a second before Bond could turn his head.  There was no time for a warning at all: the man who’d stepped out of the room just lifted his gun and shot.  

Bond swore in his head and bit back a roar out loud, deciding that he definitely needed to get his head in the game before this got worse.  The bullet took him in the left side of his chest, wide of his heart.  His left shoulder jerked back and he lost his breath as he felt the sensation of a lung collapsing - sadly, a familiar sensation.  It had happened before, and the suffocating feeling was worse than the pain.  

“Sorry,” the other man said, lowering his gun as Bond staggered against the wall, blood ruining his expensive clothes.  “I had orders to shoot if you came out.  If you live long enough, blame Silva.”

The real reason that Bond had fallen to the side was so that he was in front of Q, and that also gave him the second he needed to overcome the initial shock of having a bullet tear into him.  Before Q could even make a sound of worry behind him, 007 gathered his focus and launched himself off the wall (good leverage when you were shaky) and right into his foe.  Both went to the ground, 007 grinning a tight, snarling grin at the look of shock on the other man’s face.  Bond was still favoring his left arm, and breathing flecked his lips with red, but already he was healing and turning back into a killing machine.  Two sharp blows of his right fist - incredibly fast, packed with power - went right into his opponent’s face in quick succession, ending the fight almost before it began.  

There was silence for a moment as Bond sat back, the man under him limp and motionless, the pain aflame in the left, upper portion of Bond’s torso.  He held his breath for an agonizing moment, until he felt the sharp, fleshy twinge that signaled his lung sealing up the holes in it.  007 dragged in a ragged gasp as it reinflated, and then he was standing again, scooping up the gun.  “There,” he grunted breathlessly, turning back to look at Q’s shocked face.  Bond smiled halfheartedly back, lips still speckled with red.  “We’re armed now.”

Q recovered quickly, blinking and filing what he’d seen away for later.  ‘Later’ looked like it had a massive panic-attack stored away.  “Yes,” he replied stiffly, “And after that gunshot, everyone-”  

He jerked sharply around as multiple gunshots suddenly echoed from around the building, nearby if not in their immediate vicinity.  Bond came over to him and (again unthinkingly) gripped the Quartermaster’s arm, explaining before the smaller man could panic, “Oh, I don’t think that anyone will care about our gunshot.  That would be MI6’s distraction, and our cue to get moving.  Come on.”  

All it took was a little tug, and then Q was with him, trotting along closer than ever.  Bond liked the proximity: usually, when he was guarding someone, he had to remind them constantly to stay close if they wanted him to have the slightest chance of protecting them, but Q seemed to instinctively get the idea.  He was close enough that the strap of the shock-collar dangling from Q’s hand sometimes brushed Bond’s leg, and 007 still didn’t know why Q had insisted on bringing the thing.  He didn’t ask.  That - along with a thorough medical check for Q - would come later.    

It was obvious now that the building was under attack, and Bond made a beeline for the opposite direction.  Sure, he was moving further away from his comrades, but it was also away from bullets, making ‘away’ the best choice.  His shoulder still felt as though it was sewn together with molten lead and every breath burned, but even as he moved, the skin was knitting back together again.  With Q as he was, Bond was forced to a slower speed than he would have wanted, but a full-out run would probably have been quite painful right now anyway.  

“Do you do that often?” Q’s voice drifted up to him eventually, and this time Bond kept his eyes forward.  He grunted as he felt long fingers touch the bloody exit-wound on his back, sealed over but still a gory sight, no doubt.  

“Considering how much it hurts, I try not to,” Bond grunted back a second before he noted someone coming their way.  Not a second too soon, he backed up, an arm herding Q forcefully along with him until he’d found a small closet.  He crowded Q into it in seconds, ignoring the cramped quarters or how the smaller man tensed instantly in protest - all that mattered was the thin slice he left the door open, eyes focused on it and gun trained and ready as he watched potential danger approach.  

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, I try to describe my 007 as being a naturally tactile sort of guy - hopefully I'll play that up and make it pretty clear as time goes on :P Plus, I plan on a bit more of Bond's Deathless power showing up in the next chapters...*dramatic music*


	6. Trial by Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q continue to try and escape, but some of Silva's partners get in the way.
> 
> Or the chapter in which Bond is glad he's a Deathless, and he's glad he has Q along...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep getting distracted by other fics and forgetting to post this one - sorry!!! XP I'm a bad person. I've got at least three others fics started, not counting the two kidfics I'm regularly posting on weekends. But fear not - this one will always be updated, at least once a week!

Silence followed, as all motion stopped; in the close-quarters of the maintenance closet, the distant pounding of gunfire was muffled, and Bond’s breathing was so low and steady that it was basically inaudible.  Q was another matter, as he had tensed up like a wire and appeared to be holding his breath - belatedly, Bond realized how close the two of them were, and how uncomfortable that had to make Q.  If Q wasn’t having flashbacks of some kind, then he had nerves of godly proportions that even Bond didn’t have.  

Attempting to alleviate the situation a bit and prevent a possible panic-attack, Bond shifted to give Q as much personal space as possible (which still wasn’t much) and kept the Quartermaster mostly behind him.  It was a less vulnerable position than having the 00-agent looming over him.  Technically, Bond was handing Q a position of power by turning his back on the Technopath (something that 007 usually would have avoided like the plague, but made an exception now).  One hand briefly stretched back to press belayingly on Q’s chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat but hoping to slow it.  “Shhh...you’re all right, Q.  Just keep quiet.”  He kept his fingertips where they were, light and unthreatening, as he watched through the crack for the enemy coming down the hall.  Q was, by now, shaking like a leaf against his back, and it startled Bond when Q suddenly reached up and grabbed his wrist.  Looking back sharply in the dimness, Bond couldn’t quite make out Q’s expression, but read lips well enough as Q shakily mouthed, ‘I’m okay.’  The Quartermaster’s grip stayed on his wrist a moment longer, though, as if loath to let go.  Bond realized that it had been an anchor, of sorts, and wished that he could have afforded to just let the Quartermaster cling to him for a moment - maybe let him piece himself back together a bit.  But Bond needed his hands free for trouble, in case things got messy in a hurry.  He withdrew his hand with one last apologetic glance, both hands on his gun and eyes fixed on the dangerous world beyond the door.

Q’s eyes were closed and his breathing was a bit frantic by the time the coast was clear, Silva’s man having walked by without noticing them.  Because he had to, Bond waited a few seconds more before he swiftly opened the door and stepped out of it, gun leading and acutely aware that Q needed to recover his composure and personal space.

Which he did admirably quickly.  Still looking stressed out, Q hung back in the small compartment for a moment, running a hand unsteadily back through his hair.  “I’m fine...I’m fine,” he repeated, to himself and to Bond.  Finally he opened his eyes, refusing to look at Bond but ducking carefully out into the hallway.  

“Are you with me?” Bond asked, not moving yet even though he knew that MI6’s distraction wouldn’t last forever.  When Q’s eyes still kept shifting away uncomfortably, Bond repeated more forcefully, “Q, are you with me?”

“Yes,” the Quartermaster finally snapped back, fist clenching around the shock-collar he refused to give up.  “Yes, I am.  Can we get moving, please?” he demanded, voice clipped.  

An irritated Quartermaster, Bond could deal with.  “Keep close,” he repeated needlessly, and led the way again.  

Now, as they came to corners, Bond would keep Q back so that he could check the way forward himself.  They were getting closer and closer to outside, but therefore further and further away from MI6’s distraction, heightening the danger.  This tactic proved wise as Bond pressed Q against the wall (who stayed put obediently but shot Bond a wilting glare) and then ducked around the corner to come face-to-face with an Augment he’d met before.  The man was a Hydro, but his elemental power wasn’t near as strong as Rupert’s, and Bond was far faster anyway: the man was down before he’d raised his gun halfway, Bond’s bullet lodged in his chest.  “Q!” Bond barked, “Come on.”  He wanted out of here yesterday, and he imagined that Q agreed wholeheartedly.  

The Quartermaster immediately twisted around the corner, eyes widening only for a moment at the sight of the dead body - but he pushed the emotions off his face quickly and with a computer-like efficiency that worked even with his powers turned off.  By the way he stubbornly refused to look at the corpse, Q wasn’t used to death, but the way his expression turned flat and cold said that perhaps his mind was just too overloaded to take in anymore anyway.  Good.  That would make him easier to deal with until the shock wore off.  Hopefully they’d be a long ways from here by then.  

Further from MI6’s ruckus, Bond’s shot was more likely to draw unwanted attention, so he pushed their pace a bit more - his body was healed, and Q hadn’t asked to be carried yet, so it worked.  Things were going rather well up until they reached the door to the outside world.  Once again, Bond nudged Q against the wall, out of the way and safe, while he himself went forward.  Despite the grudging looks Q was giving him, the Quartermaster never argued with this system, and for that, 007 was grateful.  He didn’t need an untrained person chasing after him into a possibly dangerous situation-

Or a _definitively_ dangerous situation, he determined as he eased his way past the door only to be greeted by fire.  

Bond had opened the door with his foot first, but apparently Rupert was not only conscious again, but rather smart - he’d waited.  Instead of attacking immediately, he’d waited just out of sight until Bond had grown complacent enough to slip into view.  Bond roared as fire jetted at him from the right in a torturous rain, rioting with playful fingers in his clothing and hungrily seeking skin beneath.  Rupert couldn’t have that much fire-power left, especially since he’d been running low before Bond had rearranged his face, and as Bond was thinking this he was barreled into by Rupert himself.  They toppled over together and hit the dirt.  

“That first roasting of mine didn’t teach you much, but I’m always one for second-chances,” the man panted past a vile grin as both men struggled on the ground, Rupert coming out on top.  The Pyro slapping a hand across Bond’s face that instantly exploded into flames.  Rupert didn’t have enough to make an inferno, but he knew how to make less flames count for more.  Bond felt the skin across his cheek dry out and blister, his powers working frantically to undo the damage as soon as it was done.  

Bond hadn’t dropped the gun when he’d fallen - he refused to drop weapons for anything short of…  No, he just plain refused to drop his guns.  It never went well when he did, and M never let him live it down.  Now, however, as he tried to aim it at Rupert, the Pyro fearlessly wrapped a fist around the barrel and began heating it up to blistering hotness.  The red-hot heat reflected in Rupert’s mad eyes as the man grinned, his other hand locking suddenly around Bond’s throat and igniting.  Bond arched and tried to yell, but the air in his throat felt cooked and his throat was swiftly being destroyed.  

Even with healing, he couldn’t find any way to breath beyond superheated gasps, and his powers did nothing for the pain…

The pain was so great, in fact, that he barely registered the electrical shock as it curled between himself and Rupert, every point of contact suddenly tingling uncomfortably.  The effect on Rupert was much greater, as he screamed sharply and convulsed right off Bond.  Instantly, Bond reacted, running almost purely on muscle memory as he forced the red-hot gun vaguely towards the center of Rupert’s mass and compressed the trigger.  The bullet was spat out along with superheated metal slag, and Rupert’s flames cut out with a snap right about when the screaming stopped, too.  

Bond was left choking weakly while he waited for his healing abilities to catch up with the damage.  His throat knitted itself back together with a sickly sound, and for once, he didn’t react unfavorably as he felt someone pulling the gun out of his grip.  

“Bond, you bloody idiot-!  Ouch!” Q hissed as he reached for the gun, still red-hot but also still locked in Bond’s burned hand - the metal hot enough to burn Q after just the briefest contact.  Wrapping a hand awkwardly in the material of Bond’s burnt jacket, Q managed to pull back Bond’s fingers at the same as he pulled the gun free.  Bond got enough of his throat back together to grunt painfully as, now, his palm got a chance to heal.  “You’re a bloody fool, you know that, right?” the Quartermaster snarled, kneeling at Bond’s side and glaring.  

Bond was breathing again, although he imagined his neck still looked a sight.  Black was no longer dancing at the edges of his vision, and he looked over to see the shock-collar still in Q’s right hand, the remote in his shaking left hand.  

“Did you seriously use that to electrocute Rupert?” Bond croaked.

Q winced, still looking frantic and furious with worry.  “Don’t talk.  It sounds awful, like a zombie would sound if you roasted it over an open fire,” he commanded uncharitably, beginning to look around them uneasily.  With each sharp turn of his green eyes, his fear was more evident, and that was what coaxed Bond to stop languishing around and sit up with a raspy, wet groan.  

“Bond!” Q squeaked, staring back at the thoroughly damaged 00-agent now.  “Should you be moving after-?”

“No, but I’m going to be walking and driving a car in just a moment.  The only question is whether you’re going to come along or try and stop me.”

“No, I’ll come quietly” Q said after a pause, adding candidly, “I’m not that witless.”  He followed Bond to his feet, although both of them found the need to lean against each other for an embarrassing moment, Bond as he battled the pain of mortal wounds slow to fade, Q as the adrenalin faded enough to let exhaustion get a toehold.  They both probably looked equally horrid now, at least until Bond healed fully.

“That car,” Bond gritted, eyes slitted as he fixed a look at a nearby vehicle, “Now.”

“Why that car?”

“Because it’s Alec’s,” was all Bond said as he got his legs working, reminding himself that his injuries were to his upper body, so he should be able to walk.  Logically, that was true, but the pain and weariness from everywhere else tried to make a liar of him.  He didn’t bother to explain who Alec was, knowing that Q must have done his homework, or else just assumed that MI6 would leave them an escape.  “Get in,” he said shortly as he opened the [unlocked] driver’s door, his throat almost back to normal except for a hoarse catch that made it sound like he needed to clear it badly.  Right now, he didn’t even want to think about clearing it - in fact, his breath whistled like there were holes in it for awhile longer.  

Maybe it was the gory quality to Bond’s voice - maybe he was just shell-shocked and exhausted - but the Quartermaster didn’t argue.  He just got in.  

Bond got in a second before he heard the slam of a bullet into the back of the car.  Q flinched and spun in the seat, eyes wide behind his mass of hair and his glasses, but Bond just glared at the road ahead and turned the engine on, blessing Alec for leaving the keys in the ignition.  The vehicle roared to life.  

“Bond,” Q asked, calmness a thin veneer over panic like ice over a lake, “Any chance Alec’s back windows are bullet-proof?”

“Actually, yes,” Bond managed to say back quite lightly as he locked the doors and tore out of there.  Without looking from the road, he joked as best he could with one hand still half cooked and a throat that felt hot and raw, “Congratulations, Quartermaster.  You now get the perks of having 00-agents for friends.”

But Q wasn’t listening because he’d curled up against the door and seemed to have collapsed into something between exhausted sleep and a relieved sort of catatonia.  He sighed, bruised eyes closing and his hand finally unclenching from his makeshift weapon, letting the horrid leather collar with its electric prongs fall to the floor.  Bond let him be, concentrating on getting out of here before someone else got into a car and followed.  The emotional fallout would come later.

~^~

They drove on in silence as the sun set, the lights of the dashboard beginning to replace the sun from outside as scenery flashed rapidly by.  No one had followed - at least not for long, with Bond’s practice at losing vehicular tails - but Bond was still driving just fast enough to tease legality.  The only movements he made outside driving the car was to occasionally flex his right hand, feeling the burnt flesh as it receded to scar-tissue that felt stiff and strange when he moved his hand.  It would soon revert to regular, flexible flesh again, normal except for callouses that came from regular use instead of damage.  

Q hadn’t said a word either, and had only moved to draw lanky legs up onto the passenger seat.  He was curled up in ball against the door in a posture that couldn’t be comfortable with his injuries, but he’d fallen almost instantly asleep anyway.  Either that or he was dead from swelling of the brain due to a concussion, but there wasn’t anything Bond could do about it anyway, so he just kept driving.  

Finally, for fear that Q might truly be in a bad way, Bond cleared his throat carefully, aware that it was still tender.  “Q?”

The smaller man flinched mightily, proving that he was, indeed, alive, and only very shallowly asleep.  Q looked around the car dazedly, eventually blinking at the outside world as the oncoming night made shadows of everything.  He seemed shocked at how late it was, and sank back against the seat a bit.    

“Q, the painkiller is built for me - meaning it will be wearing off pretty fast now,” Bond hastened to say, having had ulterior motives for rousing the hassled Quartermaster.  “I need you to tell me how badly you’re injured, because you’re definitely going to start noticing soon.”

By now, Q was looking around, seeming uneasy as he tugged at his seatbelt and became acquainted with the idea that he was traveling in the car of a 00-agent.  “Where are we?”

“Still too bloody far from MI6 to get you to Medical,” Bond grunted, “Q, answer my question.  I thought you had a concussion earlier.”

“Well, if I had it earlier, I most certainly still have it now.”

“Q...” Bond growled warningly at the dry tone of voice.  

“All right, all right!” the Quartermaster gave in, sitting up straighter in his seat.  Bond didn’t miss how gingerly he did so, but didn’t comment; when 007’s eyes weren’t on the road, they were subtly cataloguing each of his passenger’s flinches and hesitations, injuries he’d compare to those that Q actually admitted to.  “I took a few good blows to the head…” he admitted slowly, eyes turned uncomfortably forward, “And burns, and…”  His voice was getting thinner, his voice more ragged despite the control he was rigidly trying to keep over it.  “...I believe some of my ribs are broken, so I suppose curling up in the car to sleep will not be an option in the slightest after this painkiller wears off.”  

“No, not likely,” Bond agreed.  “It probably wasn’t even a good idea before now.  Anything worse than that that will not wait until the next town?”

“I’m fine, 007-” Q breathed out through pursed lips.

Bond just interrupted him with a snort.  “No, you’re not, but the next town is only an hour away.  When we get there, we’re going to stop and I’m going to try my hand at first-aid, because I know you need it.  You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit rusty at it, since I usually don’t need it myself,” he couldn’t help but joke.  

Q didn’t appear to have the energy to joke - or to be curious about 007’s unexpected powers - and shifted positions again to lean against the door.  Even with Bond’s painkiller, he winced and moved like his insides were made of glass, and he hissed as he leaned his head against the window only to feel the vibrations right into his wounded skull.  

“Here.”  Still driving - not even veering slightly - Bond shrugged off his jacket, burned and bloodied as it was, shifting one hand off the wheel at a time to get his arms out and occasionally lifting a knee to drive.  It was abhorrent driving etiquette, but 00-agents were used to driving in all conditions.  “Use this as a pillow.  You look like you could use the sleep, and if anything happens between here and our stop, I’ll be sure to let you know.”  He handed the article of clothing over, eyes on the road as Q hesitated, then took it cautiously.

“Thank you,” he said softly, then bunched it up between his head and the window.  

Bond interrupted, voice lower, “Q, you’ve got broken ribs.  How about you just try reclining the chair?  Stretching out has got to be at least a little bit better for you than trying to fold yourself up like an origami scarecrow against the door.”  

He thought that Q would try to deny the accusation of broken ribs because they hadn’t had an opportunity to actually ascertain whether they were broken yet, or merely sore.  However, the damaged man merely beetled his brows a bit, uncomfortable and antsy and annoyed at being called a scarecrow, before giving in to Bond’s suggestion.  He was soon fumbling around over the side of the seat, until Bond gave him better directions on where to find the lever.  For a Technopath, Q wasn’t particularly skilled with the mechanics of cars.  Then again, his powers were also still off.  

Which was Bond’s next topic.  He felt Q’s eyes turned to him as he ask solemnly, “I also need to know how bad it will be for you to have your powers on, because that’s probably going to wear off, too.”  He glanced over at the smaller man, who’d pushed the chair back and was trying to pick what side the lie on, apparently refusing to just lie on his back.  All positions were equally vulnerable when you were in an enclosed space with a 00-agent, but Q seemed to be struggling between the urge to keep and eye on Bond and merely to find some position that was comfortable.  “The drug I gave you was designed to keep your powers off until we got back to MI6, but only if I went straight there, which I don’t intend to do.  If you were uninjured, we’d be heading to MI6 without stopping, but as it is…”  He chewed the inside of his cheek, remembering all that he’d seen back at Silva’s place, and how none of it had lent itself to Q’s good health.  “As it is, I’d rather lose a bit of time than risk losing the elusive Quartermaster altogether.”

“I’m quite a catch then, am I?” Q reflected dryly, finally settling down, surprisingly, on his back.  Apparently comfort had won out over the urge to protect his vulnerable underbelly.  He had also opted to take Bond’s jacket and, instead of putting it under his head, drape it over his torso.  

Bond turned the heat up in the car in response to Q’s actions, and replied to his question jokingly, “You’re the fabled Quartermaster.  You’d be quite a catch to anyone.”  He let the silence stretch a moment, flexing his healing hand again - relishing the sensation of normality that signalled the last damage reversing itself - and noting Q’s tense face and closed eyes.  “Warm enough, Q?” he asked quietly.  

“I’m fi-” he started to deflect the question.  Then the Quartermaster sighed as much as his ribs would allow and corrected, “If you could turn up the temperature a bit more, I’d be grateful.”

“Coming right up,” Bond said cheerfully, turning the dial another notch.  He worried that this drop in body temperature was a sign of shock, and pushed his foot down a little bit more on the gas.  “Try and sleep, Q.”

He expected argument, but instead Q just closed his eyes, readjusted his long legs, and proceeded to doze off with fatigued obedience.  

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had waaaaay to much fun writing the part about Bond's healing powers. And Q's little rescue with the shock-collar...felt poetic ;) Too bad it wasn't Silva suffering from it, but oh well - karma isn't always perfect.
> 
> I also seem to find Q napping in a car cute :3 No idea why


	7. A Place to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and 007 find a hotel to rest and recuperate just a bit. Bond checks in with M; Q gets from first-aid. 
> 
>  
> 
> Or the chapter that sounds like rest and relaxation but is actually full of discomfort and more trouble for Q.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! Things should be quieting down for Q and Bond...buuuuut they're not :) Go figure. Get ready to see (well, read about) Q's injuries in detail now...so I guess you should get a WARNING about that, because it probably counts as graphic

~^~

“We’re here, Q.”

Again, the Quartermaster woke with a start - this time, he jerked into wakefulness and then hissed a stuttered breath between his teeth, gingerly covering his ribs.  

“And that would be the painkiller wearing off,” 007 sighed, withdrawing from his side of the car and circling to Q’s.  He already had a bag slung over his shoulder and a new jacket over his torso, presumably pulled from the trunk of the car.  They were parked at the back of a motel, so apparently Bond had already checked them in (or he’d broken in - his track-record honestly allowed for either).  The place was as run-down as anywhere else, but Bond looked competent and determined as he opened Q’s door and waited for the Quartermaster to get out.  “Try not to move too quickly.  You might-”

“Have broken bones and such, yes,” the Technopath said with some of his natural stroppiness, sitting up stiffly and getting out of the car.  “I’m well aware, along with the fact that I’m going to absolutely hate having all of said wounds categorized and checked over.”

Bond actually winced, looking away as he shifted the bag further up on his shoulder and thought about just how uncomfortable the rest of the evening/night promised to be.  “Sorry, Q.  If it didn’t have to be done, I’d leave you alone.  I promise you that.”

Unexpectedly, as he straightened and shut the car down (looking back in and realizing that the only possession he had was a shock-collar, which he left), Q looked back up to Bond with an understanding, almost apologetic look.  “I know, Bond,” he sighed.  He started towards the hotel with his slight limp and tight, tense posture.  “I’m just glad it’s you.”

Left pondering that sentence, 007 followed after, overtaking the Quartermaster in time to lead the way to their door.  He had actually bought the room, going in and paying for it while Q was still sleeping; the manager had looked at James rather funny, but since Alec had packed extra clothes in the back of the car, Bond had at least been able to cover up the obvious burns on his clothing.  It had been enough to get the room, and now Bond let Q in and then scrupulously locked the door behind them and checked the room with the determination and avid attention of a drug-sniffing dog.  Q just stood in the center of the room, as if too drained to even collapse.  Finally, Bond noticed, and dumped his bag on the bed closest to the door to dig through it.  As expected, he found what he was looking for right near the top: more painkiller.  “Here.”  He considered tossing the bottle of pills, then decided that Q probably wouldn’t catch them.  Instead, the agent patiently tapped out one pill onto his palm and walked to within touching distance, remembering to make no physical contact or overt moves as he extended his hand and the pill.  “Take this.  It’s slower-acting than the one I gave you before, but at least you’ll be able to sleep once it kicks in.”  

While Q padded off to the bathroom to get some water to drink it down with, Bond efficiently unpacked the bag that Alec had left in the trunk of the car.  There was weaponry and ammunition for it, as well as clothing, food (which had the advantage of being nutritious but the disadvantage of being absolutely unpalatable), and a very extensive first-aid kit.  Since Bond was a Deathless, and therefore pretty much never needed the first-aid kit, the bandages and painkiller and numbing agents were obviously for Q in case of an emergency.

Like now.  

Bond almost didn’t hear Q come back into the main room until the bed behind him depressed, the Technopath on it completely silent.  When 007 turned around, Q avoided his eyes, sitting with his hands clasped between his knees and his posture balanced between tense and too tired to keep it up.  

Bond decided to take this slowly.  He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then commanded in a quiet tone designed to soothe, “Lean your head forward, Q.  I may as well look first at that concussion I think you have.”

Q grunted but complied, tipping his head forward until dark-brown curls fell over his glasses.  In the hotel-room lights, the blood was more visible, but it was all dried.  Ripping open a packet of wipes with antiseptic, Bond went to work in much the same way that he’d done with fellow agents before: 006 was regularly getting himself bashed up, and without Bond’s healing abilities, he had to sit through treatment to ensure he lived to see Medical.  Now it was Q, and the body sitting in 007’s shadow was thin and lanky instead of broad and muscular, breakable where Alec was durable.  It was almost unsettling, and 007 felt afraid of breaking him like a twig.  Bond treated Q’s head carefully, barely touching it to get at the blood and clean up the cut buried in his hair, pausing wordlessly when the Quartermaster winced.  

“Well, the good news is, you don’t need stitches,” Bond said after he’d inspected the damage and given Q his head back.  “The bad news is, now I’ve got to check those ribs, as well as those burns Rupert gave you.”

Q’s eyes flashed up, naked fear in them for a second before he reined it in and affected a cool expression that he directed towards the far side of the room.  “Off with the shirt then?”

“Off with the shirt,” Bond nodded regretfully, backing up a few steps and preparing for a painful interaction.  

At some point, Q had redone the belt on his pants for the sake of his sanity and self-respect, but he’d never bothered to try and straighten out the rest of his clothing.  Buttons were missing and seams were ripped anyway, and now, with dejected resignation, he began slowly stripping.  It was impossible to watch, and Bond crossed his arms, turning his head away and wishing he were anywhere but here, or if there were a way to just trust Q to treat himself.  In the condition the Quartermaster was in, however, Bond would be neglecting his duty if he didn’t see to Q thoroughly and personally.  

Q was shaking by the time he had his torso bare, and Bond felt himself moved to step forward, tone calming and hands gentle as he removed the damaged shirt from Q’s quivering hand and placed it on the bed next to him.  “It’s okay, Q, you’re doing all right.  Just take slow breaths.  I’m going to finally check if your ribs are broken are just bruised, all right?”  Bond asked this as he dropped slowly to his knees, hoping that now that he wasn’t looming, Q would back away from the mental precipice of panic that 007 could see in his eyes.  When Q moved his head in something that could, conceivably, be construed as a jerky nod (at least it wasn’t an outright denial), Bond reached forward hesitantly with one hand to touch that heavily bruised side.

Mostly, Bond was trying to hide the fact that Q was a mess, enough so that Bond was truly startled.  He’d known that Silva and his men had done a number on him, but he hadn’t expected anything this bad: he could see that Q was usually pale, with soft, creamy skin stretched over a lean, sparse frame, stranger to the sun but not unhealthy.  In some places, inhuman touches of what looked like wiring or metal showed through like glimmers of fish at the surface of a pond - visible proof that Q was a Technopath.  

Now, nearly every inch of Q’s torso was mottled purple and nearly black in places with bruising where it wasn’t angry red with burns.  He’d obviously been kicked heavily on either side, with the left side worse, but most disturbing was the obvious, blistered handprint on his stomach, a mark from Rupert that made it clear that he’d been positioned like a lover clasping his partner to him.  A partner whose hands burned.  Only years of training kept Bond’s reaction in check, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel sick.  

And when he touched Q’s side, he was given another horrid realization: Q’s ribs were definitely broken, or at least very seriously cracked, because he could almost feel bone grind, and Q’s cry of pain was more of a butchered sob because it was so intense.  Bond immediately pulled his hand away, frowning as he assessed the situation of his intensely injured companion.  “Well, that answers that,” was all he said in regards to the ribs, which he wouldn’t be able to do much about at the moment.  Instead, he turned his attention to the burns and tried his level best not to think about under what condition the Quartermaster had gotten them...because if he thought about it, he’d start seeing red.  “I’ve got something that will quiet down those burns a bit, if you’re in a state to smear it on,” he said, leaning back on his heels and reaching for a container wedged amidst everything else in the first-aid kit.  There was, perhaps, something to help with the ribs a tiny bit, too, which he’d dig out.

Q was having to breathe shallowly to avoid awakening the pain in his ribs again, and he let out a whistled breath between his teeth that was part frustration, part determination.  “Yes, I can do that.  Just rub it on, you say?”

“Correct - and lightly.  If you try and really rub the stuff in, you’ll probably only make it worse.”  Bond handed Q the tin, wanting to offer some comfort but knowing no way to do it other than the physical, which would be no help in the current situation.  He got up to read the label on another container, holding it up closer to the light and also circling around just enough to get a good look at Q’s back.  Yup: just as bad as his front.  “You’re going to need help treating the burns on your back.”

“I know,” Q said, lightly exasperated but mostly just tired.  With tentative fingers he was dabbing cream on his burns, but was relaxing visibly as the cool stuff sank in and took away some of the nagging discomfort.  He still couldn’t relax fully because of his ribs, however.  

Bond was nodding at what he was reading, deciding that it would serve the purpose he wanted it to.  He disappeared into the bathroom long enough to grab a cloth, and was unscrewing the container as he walked back.  “No promises, but this should make your ribs feel quite a sight better.  Usually, Alec uses this in conjunction with a lot of alcohol when I have to give him stitches, to numb him.  It’s the best I’ve got for your ribs.”

“Thank you, 007,” Q said in a voice that quavered slightly but did its best to remain steady.  He’d stopped spreading salve over his burns in part because he’d gotten the worst of them and in part because he was obviously in too much pain to go on.  He was wincing and closing his eyes for long stretches, as if trying to corral his mind somewhere where the pain couldn’t reach it, and it reminded Bond of how nearly catatonic the Quartermaster had been when he’d gotten to him.  

“Good thing your powers are still off, eh?” he said, aware that this could actually be worse.  

Q’s eyes were squeezed shut, making him docile by default as he clutched his hands at the edge of the bed.  “Yes, thank goodness,” he snapped back briefly.  Bond took the opportunity of Q’s distraction to slip his hand in - the cloth enclosed in his fingers, its end liberally coated in numbing agent so that it wouldn’t touch Bond’s fingers and thus numb them, too - along Q’s side, gently touching the damaged area.  

Immediately, Q swore and leaned away, but that hurt, too, so he had no choice but to cut the movement short and stay put.  He couldn’t get away from Bond, and it was only marginally less horrible to put up with his ministrations, so Q froze in the form of one big quaking mess, choking on the act of breathing as his ribs were touched.  Bond was hurriedly murmuring soothing words, nonsense flowing past his lips in a steady stream like ropes to tie Q to his sanity.  He’d reached out his free hand to grip Q’s shoulder and keep him still, and tried to be as quick and merciful as possible as he coated Q’s sides with numbing agent.  He worried that Q wouldn’t let him get to the other side after he’d left off on the left, so he stood up smoothly, mentally apologizing for looming while he verbally apologized for hurting the Quartermaster.  Through it all, Q gritted his teeth until a line of blood showed at the seam of his lips, and bore it.  Switching hands, Bond continued to ground Q with his hand on his shoulder, center him with his litany of soothing words, and help him with painful, careful touches.  

“There, Q, it’s done.  It’s all over.  Just concentrate on the sound of my voice, and the worst of it will fade in a few seconds,” Bond said in his unshakable tone, determined that Q listen to him.  On reflex, he reached forward, one hand still on Q’s shoulder but the other now cupping the curve of his sharp jaw to try and get his attention.  “That stuff is strong enough that the last time I got it on my fingers, I couldn’t feel them for hours.  Luckily, I can shoot a gun from muscle memory alone even if I can’t feel the trigger.”

Q surprised Bond by snorting.  It wasn’t precisely a sound of humor, but at least it was a response.  When no actual words were forthcoming, Bond backed off, thinking of something quickly and pulling out a loose, button-down shirt and taking some of the burn-cream and simply smearing it on the inside of the material.  Then, he lightly placed the shirt over Q’s shoulders, knowing that Q would thank him later even as he flinched now at the feeling of slimy cloth on his bruised, burned back.  “Shhh, shh.  Just lie down, Q.  You’re all right,” Bond continued to reassure him while also maneuvering him back onto the bed, glad that Q had apparently locked up his mind somewhere deep inside himself.  Otherwise, he would have been cognizant enough to realize that someone was pushing him down on his back on a bed, something that had been done to him as an act of defilement only hours before.  He did fight Bond a little, but he was either too weak or too unaware to put any real effort into it, and as soon as Q was lying down, Bond backed off and ceased to touch him, giving the Quartermaster some space.  007 went across the room to turn the temperature up, ensuring that Q wouldn’t get cold if he went into shock, or if he was already in shock.  

Then he just leaned against the flimsy hotel chair and tried to clear his head, fighting down the taste of bile in the back of his throat as he considered what he’d just done, and how much agony the Quartermaster was in right now.  Q was not doing well, and if Silva had kept him, he would have killed him in hours at this rate.  Bond honestly felt that he hadn’t done much to help that situation, because every ounce of good he’d done for Q had been so heavily laced in bad that it almost felt nonexistent.  

Bond returned to the bag to dig in it until he found a cellphone, knowing that it would be secure.  The number he called by heart sent him directly to a messaging service, but that was expected, so he briefly stated that he was behind schedule with some complications, all without actually mentioning either his own name or Q’s title or where they were.  MI6 would get the message, and this was the best way to let them know how things were going without risking an enemy force getting too much information.  If MI6 were truly worried, they’d call back.  Bond placed the phone on the bedside table with the sound turned on so he wouldn’t miss a call.  He looked to Q.  

The Quartermaster was out cold, or at least fitfully close.  The dark circles under his eyes highlighted the bruising on his face and the signs of singed skin, and he looked like he’d been hit by a car, honestly.  Bond just had to hope he survived it all, because he suspected M would skin 007 alive if he returned empty-handed.  Plus, on a more humane side, Bond didn’t want Q to have survived all of this just to die uselessly of complications.  

Briefly, he considered his back-up plan...but no.  That was a last-ditch resort, and while Q wasn’t in good condition by any stretch, he was stable.  He was breathing steadily and less painfully than before (so the numbing agent was sinking in after all), and when Bond reached out to take his pulse at his wrist, the rhythm was nothing to be alarmed about.  In fact, Q shifted, proving that he was perhaps closer to wakefulness than Bond had thought.  The larger man retreated, wanting to give Q the opportunity to sleep at least until the pill he’d taken kicked in fully.  

Bond sat down on his ownbed, checking the new handgun Alec had been nice enough to pack for him, and tried to plan a bit for the days ahead.  

~^~

The ‘days ahead’ came sooner than expected, because Q only slept an hour or so before rousing again.  It was still dark out, with a few hours until morning.  Q’s wakefulness was announced by a whimpered groan, but Bond was smart enough not to go over to him or make any sudden moves.  Instead, as the Quartermaster’s red-rimmed eyes snapped open, he said steadily before the other man’s eyes could even begin to dart around, “We’re in a motel on our way to MI6, and you’re not in any danger.  If you start moving around too quickly, you’ll regret it, but only because someone beat the tar out of you.”

“Multiple someones,” Q corrected as dryly as possible as he levered himself into a sitting position - slowly, as 007 had suggested.

Bond merely nodded, accepting that and repeating, “Multiple someones then.”

“If you want names, I can give them.”

Q seemed as tense and unfriendly as a scared cat, so Bond decided that that was one conversation he had no interest in right now.  “That can wait until we reach MI6.  My orders were just to bring you in, not interrogate you.  I’m decidedly poor at interrogations anyway.”

Although his posture was still defensive and cagy, the look Q shot towards Bond in surprise looked rather grateful.  The cream-smeared shirt he’d laid on had slipped off his shoulders as he sat up, and he looked back at it, quick mind working behinds his eyes as he either recollected or deduced its purpose, or at least the fact that Bond had put the shirt on him.  Q’s emotions after that were mixed, so Bond stopped trying to read his face.  

“I’m going to take a shower,” Q announced suddenly and with a stubbornness that indicated this was not a request but instead a warning not to get in his way.  In fact, he shot Bond a challenging look, as if daring him to argue.  Bond lifted his hands in a nonconfrontational gesture.  

“No arguments here, Q.  That cream for the burns should have done its work by now, so washing it off won’t hurt.”  Bond felt something relax in his chest as Q’s tension uncoiled somewhat, and the man walked almost boldly towards the motel bathroom despite the fact that he was shirtless, injured, and powerless for at least a few more hours.  “Q?” Bond stopped him, keeping his voice carefully modulated but serious, “Keep the door unlocked.”  He was aware of just how spectacularly horrible that suggestion could go if Q didn’t trust Bond to behave himself - and he had precious little reason to believe he would, considering he knew 007’s romantic record - so he hurried to clarify, “If you fall or anything happens, it’s my job to be able to reach you.  Do you understand?”

For a moment, Q didn’t respond, didn’t turn any further from the quarter-view he was offering Bond with his eyes fixed unreadably on the floor.  Finally, he said, voice surprisingly cool and collected, almost dry, “Quite a professional now, aren’t you, Agent Bond?  And I thought you survived by telling jokes and smiling charismatically.”

Bond flashed a smile, defending lazily, “Professionalism has been known to happen with me.  A shock, I know.”

“Hmm,” Q concurred, then continued to the bathroom, saying, “I’ll leave it unlocked.  Just don’t come in.”

“You have my word,” Bond said just before the door shut.  And, indeed, there was no click of a lock turning, although he heard a pause of silence as if the Quartermaster stood a moment with his hand on the knob, torn, before leaving the door unlocked and turning to start the shower.

~^~

With a spectacular show of timing, MI6 called Bond back a moment later.  Apparently, his brief message hadn’t placated M in the slightest about the condition of his mission.  “JB Morgue: you kill ’em, we chill ’em,” he answered the phone glibly while keeping one ear tipped to the sounds from the shower.  

“Oh, come off it, 007,” M snapped at him tersely.  The fact that she was talking to him directly made Bond sit up a fraction straighter; the acquisition of the Quartermaster must be important to have her chatting with him directly.  “You know this line is secure, so I can’t imagine any reason for you to answering the phone so childishly other than your own twisted sense of humor.”

“Better me than Alec.  Last time you called him, I heard he pretended to be Rasputin.  Compared to him, my sense of humor at least makes sense.”

“007, if I’d known you’d be this much of an annoyance when I brought you into the program, I’d have never bothered,” M cut him off with a snap, making Bond smirk, “Now, report.  We’ve kept Silva off your tail for now, even if we didn’t kill him.  Locations I don’t need, but the condition of the Quartermaster I would like to know.”

Immediately, Bond sobered, all of his teasing flitting away.  His jaw tightened and he glanced somewhat guiltily towards the closed bathroom door, willing to bet that Q wouldn’t be happy that 007 was about to tell M all about him.  “Silva and his gang did a real number on him.  Broken ribs and more bruising than most people see in a lifetime.  Oh, and make sure you have Rupert Rettiker on your files under the title of ‘Silva’s crony,’ because he was there.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Not sure,” Bond admitted in a growl, making it clear what he thought of that, “He burned up the Quartermaster pretty badly, but nothing mortal.  It’s the psychological side you’ll probably want to prepare for.”

M was silent on the other end of the phone for a moment, perhaps because Bond’s voice had betrayed emotion ever-so-briefly on the phone.  Most people wouldn’t have heard anything beyond the low, glib, almost bored tones, but M knew he agents, and therefore asked without preamble, “Sexual assault?”

Bond said nothing, which was an answer.  

“I’ll alert Medical and our psych team,” M sighed, wanting details but knowing that she wouldn’t get any - at least not over the phone, and with 007 so obviously worked up over this beneath his mask of calm control.  “Normally, I’d say that they’ll be happy to work with someone other than a cantankerous 00-agent, but somehow I don’t think that will be the case.  When should we expect you?”

“Just a day behind schedule, hopefully-”  Bond had barely begun to answer when suddenly he heard a loud series of thuds as something - someone - fell down in the shower.  He barely paused to grit out three numbers into the phone’s speaker: quick, shorthanded code that meant ‘trouble; I’ve got it handled; don’t call back.’  Granted, 90% of the time an agent gave that code, things were honestly not that under control at all, but M didn’t have much choice but to leave it all in the more-or-less capable hands of her 00-agents.  Bond had already snapped off the phone and was barrelling towards the bathroom, adrenalin speeding up at the small, choked noises he was hearing from the other side of the door.

“Q?” he barked even as he slammed open the door, feeling the cooler air of the motel room rush in after him to displace the warm cocoon of steam, “Q!”  With no door standing between him and the catastrophe, the sounds were even clearer now, and what had been whimpers sounded more like agonized, wet gasps.  Without having to think, and even before he saw Q collapsed against the side of the tub with the water still running over him and the curtain half-pulled down, Bond knew what had happened: Q had fallen and had shattered his already-broken ribs, at the very least stabbing one of them into a lung.  He was suffocating on his own blood.  

And chances were, he’d be dead before anyone could do anything about it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! XP Next chapter: remember Bond talking earlier about plan B? The plan he said he didn't want to use...? Anyway, it will all make sense in the next chapter, which will hopefully be up in a week.


	8. Deathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is dying, and Bond has a limited number of options for how to save him...but perhaps not as limited as most people.
> 
> Or the chapter in which you learn a little bit more about being a Deathless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a touch shorter than my usual chapters (about 5 and 1/2 pages instead of 6 on a Word document), but it will at least relieve you of the cliffhanger from the last chapter!

“Time for plan B then,” Bond muttered as he swiftly knelt by Q’s side, putting hands on Q’s tight, writhing shoulders to stabilize him. Naked, covered by nothing but water and with grit and blood still swirling down the drain, nothing of the Quartermaster’s abuse was hidden, and Bond felt sadness sliver into his death-hardened heart. Q was shuddering and coughing as he tried to get air into a lung that was collapsed, long, artistic limbs covered in bruises - far too many in the shape of hand- and fingerprints. His hands were scrambling against the slick edges of the shower as if he could somehow escape this invisible, deadly attacker that had bitten into his chest and stolen his oxygen.

He was just coherent enough to recognize Bond in the midst of his suffocating panic - and to grow more alarmed when he saw 007 pull a knife unexpectedly from a sheath at his boot, at the same time gripping one of Q’s forearms. “James..? What-? No…!” he managed to choke out between coughs that flecked the floor and his lip and chin with blood. He was dying, but he had enough power to try and yank his arm back, jerking his battered body back against the tap.

Bond, eyes tight with regret, followed, ignoring the way the water flattened his hair against one side of his head and he had to blink droplets from his eyes as he leaned into the shower. “It’s this or dying, Q!” he gritted out as he tightened his grip on Q’s forearm again and this time brought his knife in with slick efficiency, opening up a cut on the back of Q’s arm. Q didn’t have enough breath to scream, but he threw his head back, water flying everywhere from the mess of his hair; as his muscles contracted with pain, his ribs protested even more. With Q now sitting with his back to the far side of the tub, it was obvious to Bond’s eyes that the left side of his ribcage was deformed, the smooth arcs of bone meant to protect his lungs now turned inwards like claws to destroy them.

There was no choice then. Bond was a Deathless, meaning he had a prodigious healing skill that made him borderline indestructible, but there was another facet to his power as well - a trick of a less selfish variety, which he used carefully and sparingly. Now, he planned to use it on Q, because if he didn’t, he’d be down one Quartermaster in the next few minutes.

Without another word, 007 gritted his teeth and slashed the same knife across his own palm, then wrapped his fist around Q’s lacerated arms so that both wounds were pressed together. It wasn’t sanitary in the slightest, but Bond wouldn’t have to worry about that in a moment.

He closed his eyes, blocking out the sounds of Q struggling: struggling to find air, struggling to get away from Bond, struggling with useless hope to at least regain some dignity in death when he was naked and obviously abused in a shower. Those alert, bright eyes were clouded with a torment that went beyond the agonies of the flesh.

Bond blocked that all out, simply focusing his attention on his wounded hand instead. Already, his powers were rushing there like fire to oxygen, seeking to heal the damage he’d done with sharp steel. If he concentrated, he could feel the severed edges of his own nerves and veins like little hands reaching across the breach, trying to find their fellows.

And, if he continued to concentrate, he could confuse that power, and sense Q’s sundered skin as well.

In a rush, Bond’s senses surged into Q’s body. A moment ago, he’d been able to sense his own frame and limbs, but as his blood got mixed up in Q’s, he tricked his powers in a surge of will. Suddenly, 007 could feel Q’s body as well, with all of its injuries and damages, its pulses and pains. Q’s heartbeat was a rapid staccato, like a sped-up version of Bond’s, and the ebb and flow of his blood was a twisted echo that would have made Bond dizzy if he hadn’t done this before. M had nearly died once, and Bond had shown that he was more than just a hired gun and a good assassin when he’d extended his powers into her body and saved her life.

Bond winced but managed the pain with the ease of much experience as he felt Q’s scalpel-sharp ribs buried in his left lung; the injury may as well have been his own. Bond’s powers were surging through his cut palm and Q’s sliced arm to reach into Q’s chest, latching onto the damage.

The reaction came just when Bond expected, and he winced with sympathy. Bond’s healing power gripped all of the pieces of Q’s ribs in supernatural fingers, and yanked them back into place. More skin ripped to do this, but Bond’s healing power was a cold, calculating force; it would worry about the collateral damage later. Q’s whole frame arched and he screamed, the sound horrid and ripped through the film of blood in his throat.

Bond’s powers kept working, extending to fill every inch of this strange body just as if Bond were the one who’d been beaten to a bloody pulp. He experienced a jarring sort of hiccup as Q’s technological side jarred and rebuffed him, but the serious damage was focused on living flesh and bone, and that was what 007’s powers focused on. The lung was soon being mended, and cranial damage from the suspected concussion was proven even as it was fixed; what Bond was less excited about was the knowledge of more...personal...injuries being put to right, tearing from penetration and vicious, rough handling. Bond knew each injury intimately now, because his power was a part of him, and it was now consuming Q like a fire.

The problem was, Bond couldn’t exactly control it. There was never an option of not healing a wound if he was injured, so if Bond got a papercut or if he was hit by a car, his power went to work with the same tenacity. Usually, it was something he just took for granted, because pretty much every wound he ever got necessitated immediate attention anyway - but now?

Now, he knew he was going to regret this. He’d regretted it when he’d healed M, and he was already feeling the repercussions of his actions now.

More so than healing his own body, tricking his powers and extending them into a body outside his own was exhausting. He was overextending himself literally and physically, stretching his powers beyond their purview and putting back together a body that had never been supernaturally healed before. On top of that, the Quartermaster was a wreck, and even a doctor with a team of nurses would have been tired out by the time they had Q put to rights. Bond also had a time limit: as soon as the wound on his own palmed healed, the connection to Q’s wounded body would be lost, so he had to fix up the Technopath before then.

Ribs reformed in their pristine, curved shapes again, and the delicate flesh of a shredded lung was returned to perfection while Q coughed, limp and overwhelmed by this point. Had he been in any condition to look, he would have been seeing the bruises and burns on his body disappearing as if the shower were washing them off.

As Q’s pain was driven away and he was yanked back from the yawning maw of death, Bond was being drained of energy as if he’d been stabbed himself and was hemorrhaging power. He was like a rubberband being stretched to the breaking point - no, actually, this was what it felt to have his guts being pulled out. Ironically, he knew the feeling. When that had happened, he’d healed, of course, but right now...right now, he felt himself slipping.

Yes, this was going to be just as awful as that time he’d healed M. See if 007 ever did anything selfless again…

The cut on his hand finally sealed over completely, and the 00-agent promptly collapsed unconscious, replete in the knowledge that the Quartermaster was now solidly in the realm of healthy and hale.

 

~^~

 

Bond came back around again more slowly than he was used to, and it was only because he’d been trained within an inch of his life that he didn’t give in to the urge to groan. The last time he’d healed someone else, he’d felt similar to this: aching, exhausted, and generally worn out so that his instincts were dull and his mind uncomfortably fuzzy. Usually, he slept lightly and awoke swiftly, but now his thoughts swam in a dull haze for a moment before he sensed hard tile beneath his back and warm fingers wrapped about his wrist: two pressed to his pulse and presumably a thumb braced against the back of his wrist. Bond kept his breathing level and unchanged, but felt the adrenalin spike in his system.

Something - someone - shifted next to him. “Bond? 007, are you awake?” came Q’s voice with blessed familiarity.

Breathing out a long breath at the knowledge that he wasn’t under attack, Bond allowed him to finally act more awake. The ceiling of the motel bathroom swam into view as he opened his eyes, meaning Q hadn’t moved him except perhaps to roll him over onto his back. His head felt damp but no longer dripping water, so he’d been here long enough for his hair to dry.

Q was sitting next to him, now dressed in a sweater and sweatpants - both too big, indicating that he’d just grabbed something very quickly from the other room before coming back to sit by Bond’s side. He also had one of MI6’s guns in his hand, and was positioned to guard the door, face tired but tense. However, he promptly switched his hold to offer the grip to Bond with a raised brow. “I should have realized that an agent of your training would wake silently. Do you want your gun back?”

Although Bond doubted he could aim it so long as his eyelids felt like lead and he was seeing double, his palm itched for the familiar feel of a weapon. “Yes,” he grated out. His throat felt like he hadn’t used it in ages.

“Good, because it appears to be coded to your palmprint, and I can’t bypass that until my powers turn back on,” Q informed him quite openly, not actually seeming all that angry, “It appears that whatever you did to heal me did not include clearing the inhibitor from my system.”

That made sense: Bond’s healing ability was pretty thorough, but it had a blind-spot where poisons or chemical agents were concerned. Q would have to wait for the drug to wear off normally. The muscles of 007’s arm felt as disused as his throat as he slipped his right hand free of Q’s fingers - which Bond belatedly realized had been monitoring his pulse. The sudden increase of his heart-rate had given him away when consciousness had returned.

With a weapon now in his hand and feeling...marginally...better for it, Bond pushed himself up with creaking muscles and a surge of utterly exhausted dizziness. Immediately, he looked to the Quartermaster, eyes searching blearily for bruises and burns, although when he reached out to tilt Q’s chin to the side - wanting to see if he’d completely healed the electrical burn from the shock-collar on his neck - Q shied away with a distrustful look. Bond immediately stopped and raised both hands, gun hanging unthreateningly where he’d hooked his thumb through the trigger-guard. “Don’t worry, Q, I’m not going to heal you again. I don’t have the energy to do a thing like that twice.”

At that point, Q also handed back Bond’s knife, which he’d dropped somewhere during this whole process. “And what exactly did you do?” Q asked back warily. For a moment, he remained leaning away from 007, clearly remembering the excruciating pain of his body repairing itself at the behest of Bond’s powers. Slowly, however, he relaxed when he came to accept Bond’s word as truth: there would be no more unexpected, painful healing. “I think that it’s time you explained just what kind of Augment you are-”

Q stopped talking suddenly with a startled noise as 007’s eyes shuttered closed and he swayed alarmingly. In fact, 007 would likely have fallen over had not Q quickly moved to brace one of his shoulders. “Bond?” he yelped, once again showing a predilection for just repeating the agent’s name when he was startled and didn’t know what was going on, “Bond, what’s wrong?”

“Just...exhausted,” 007 got out, hating how he slurred. He had enough presence of mind to slip the gun into the waistband of his trousers before trying to gather his depleted energy again and not fall asleep. It was so galling that he snarled to himself, in a very sincere attempt to scare the tiredness away.

“What do you need me to do?” Some of the old Quartermaster was back: the sensible, unflappable voice that talked agents thought missions that would cause normal folk to go to pieces. Although Q still sounded more than a little panicked...

“Get me to bed,” 007 decided reluctantly, “I’d rather not sleep on the floor anymore, and staying awake...may not be an option much longer. This is what I get for using that much power at once.”

Getting up proved to be a borderline-comical game of physics and gravity versus determination. Bond was wrung-out and uncoordinated, and Q wasn’t much better, although he was at least no longer suffering from burns and broken ribs. Still, the Quartermaster wasn’t built like Bond, and maneuvering the muscular agent to his feet and then out of the bathroom to the bed caused him to accumulate a few new bruises as they swayed and swerved into doorways and furniture. Bond just managed to move the gun to the table next to the bed before more-or-less collapsing on the mattress; since his arm was still slung over Q’s shoulders, he almost dragged the Quartermaster down with him, who yelped. “Sorry,” Bond murmured, meaning it.

Q disentangled himself and sat up, straightening his shirt and even getting out a nervous sort of laugh. “No harm done,” he said, calming. He swiftly removed himself to the other bed, however, out of reach. Bond wondered if that had been something he’d been apt to do before, or if it was a new reflex manifested after the untender affections of Silva and his men. While Bond struggled to keep his eyes open and think, Q pressed with careful but obvious unease, “I’m assuming that this was not part of the plan.”

“No, it wasn’t,” 007 admitted candidly. “And your next question is going to have something to do with whether I’m going to just go into a coma and leave you in a fix - am I right?”

Narrowing his eyes, Q snorted. The smile on his face was brittle and mostly false, but since he also looked away to hide it, that meant some of the humor was real. “Never crossed my mind,” he artfully deflected.

“Hmm,” Bond made a noise that was neither belief nor disbelief. “In that case, I’m just talking to myself when I say that I’ll recover, and you don’t have to worry. It’s not every day that I extend my healing powers to another person to save their life, but I’ve done it and survived before, after some rest.” Just how much rest made him wince, because he hated how groggy and exhausted he felt - as if he’d been up and running for weeks. His abilities were phenomenal, but they did not come without a price.

“Thank you for that, by the way,” Q relented to say, then covered his face with a hand, just missing smudging his glasses. Through his fingers he groaned in obvious, weary embarrassment, “It’s just horrible to think that all of that came about because I slipped in the shower.”

“That’s what happened?” Bond asked, calm and straight-faced.

Q sighed and his shoulders slumped. He took his glasses off neatly to rub at the bridge of his nose and lids of his vibrant green eyes. “I had a flashback of sorts, and it disoriented me. I...forgot where I was for a moment, until I was falling.” Q dropped his hand to reveal a tart, frustrated expression, anger turned irritably inwards. “That brought me back to myself in a hurry.”

“Can happen to the best of us,” Bond waved away Q’s shame tactfully, as if it was of no concern. Perhaps he was lying; perhaps he was telling the truth - but he was the best at the former when he couldn’t produce the latter, so Q would never know. “You were asking another question,” Bond recalled as he rubbed a hand over his face, wondering if he looked as haggard as he felt, “before I tried to pass out.”

“Ah,” perked up the Quartermaster. He’d been touching a hand to his side as if unable to believe it didn’t hurt; in fact, his fingertips had been ghosting towards the hem of the sweater as if he still wanted to check and be sure the burns and bruising hadn’t returned. Since the Quartermaster had been naked when the healing had finished, he’d doubtlessly got quite a clear and shocking look at himself in his newly undamaged state, but Bond knew from experience that it took awhile for the reality of it to sink in. “I was demanding to know just what kind of Augment you were, seeing as I didn’t know you were one at all until just yesterday.”

It was only then that Bond realized that it was, indeed, the next day, but there wasn’t much he could do about that in his present condition. Unless he wanted Q to drive (which he didn’t - not only would have hurt his pride but he didn’t trust the Quartermaster behind the wheel if they were found and chased), they were staying right here until Bond recovered a bit. Groaning as he propped himself up against the headboard, Bond replied without preamble, “I’m a Deathless. It means pretty much what you already know: super-fast healing and the occasional ability to extend that power to others.” He chuckled as he recalled a particular turn of phrase, and said it aloud like a predatory promise: “Cut me, and I bleed - but not for long.”

“How does that work? Not your own healing - I’m not brave enough to ask a 00-agent just what it takes to kill him,” Q hurried to assure before going on, “How do you heal others?”

Bond realized that Q distracting himself, putting off the eventual shock that would come from all that had happened. As bad as that was in the long-run, it was a trick that 00-agents were famous for, Bond most of all. Besides, with 007 rather out of commision, he could only support such a decision to remain levelheaded and in control for a bit longer. So he explained as clearly as possible, raising the hand that still showed a faint seam of a scar where he’d cut it. “When I cut you and then cut myself, I pressed the cuts together, and that was enough of a connection to confuse my powers. My ability just sensed ripped skin that needed to be pulled back together, but your skin was there, too, and soon I was...finding...all of your injuries.”

Q winced, turning away, and Bond wished he’d managed to word that better. As it was, there was an uncomfortable silence as both thought about how Bond knew each and every bruise and break and tear on (and in) Q’s body, from the brutal to the intimate. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it, but Bond wished there was a way to explain that he didn’t look down on Q or pity him in the light of this information. If anything, he sympathized, but he’d already messed up enough with words.

Thankfully, the Quartermaster had a professional side that was hard to keep down, and he reverted back to it as he filed away the previous information for later perusal. “It’s my turn then. You asked about Silva, and why he doesn’t generally carry a gun.” Q had been looking down at his lap, picking at a seam on his borrowed clothing with his voice emotionless and detached. He looked up now, the eyes behind his glasses were as cool and businesslike as his tone. “Do you still want to know what I have to tell you?”

Despite the fact that, mostly, 007 wanted to pass out and sleep for a year - and the fact that he’d promised not to interrogate Q so soon after his ordeal - Bond found himself growing keenly interested and alert.  "You've got my undivided attention," he assured the smaller man.

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone curious about Silva? ;) He's a rather nasty bugger...


	9. Visceral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find out a bit about Silva's powers, at long last! Plus, Bond finally gets some sleep - all sounds good, right?
> 
> Or the chapter in which things get unexpectedly worse for MI6 in 007's absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit late! I lost track of what day it was XP

Q gave a brusque nod and looked down again, focusing on the mindness motions of his hands as he delved into the subject of Raoul Silva, the Augment who had started all of this.  “Silva doesn’t need a weapon because his powers as an Augment already make him deadly enough, and he has an ego a mile wide, so he doesn’t bother to arm himself in any way.”  Memories were clearly crawling up Q’s throat, because his facial features were tightening and his shoulders hunching, but he forcibly calmed himself, and continued in that straightforward, steely tone, “They call Silva a Visceral, which means he can reach out and take you apart from the inside just by touching you.  He literally controls - and destroys - flesh.  It’s a sort of Telekinesis that combines his will and the ability to distort and control biological components, so far as I can tell.  I only found this out a few days ago.”  The Quartermaster hunched in on himself again, and Bond winced in sympathy.  Q had learned a lot of things a few days ago, when his days of running and hiding had come to an end.  Still, Q’s eyes tilted up to Bond’s, and he noted, “The reason you only find vicious Augments is because Silva’s killed all of the good ones.  I daresay that you and I are the only ones left not on his side, except for some that have perhaps gone deep into hiding.  Silva tried but couldn’t effectively use his power on me because I am, literally, only about half flesh.  The rest of me is mechanics, and he can’t quite get a grip on me.”  

“Thank goodness for small miracles,” Bond opined in a low and serious voice, then offered up some information of his own, “I can’t affect all of you either, for the record.  My healing powers are effectively blind to anything mechanic you have.”  

Q canted his head at that, then nodded as if it made sense.  He assimilated information very quickly.  Whether he’d have a mental breakdown because of it all later was still up for debate.  “Your powers both have a strong biological basis, but they must work in fairly different ways, because Silva’s couldn’t get a grip on me _at all_.  You, at least, seem have have reached a fair level of success.”  The Quartermaster stopped to consider his words, then - after another considering pause - drew up his shirt, baring a lean wedge of torso that had previously been a mass of burns and bruising and buckled ribs but was now pale and smooth, marked only by glimmering seams of wires flirting with the surface of his skin.  Despite how much 007 trusted his own powers, he released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding as he saw proof that Q was, indeed, whole again.  “Quite a high level of success, I should actually say.  Your work is remarkable.”

Although the tone was mostly collected and aloof, there was definitely a nod towards impressed approval, and Bond dipped his chin formally to accept it as he leaned against the headboard.  “Thanks, Q.  Now, can you handle yourself for a few hours?  As much as I bloody hate to admit it, I’m going to be asleep in a few minutes here whether I like it or not, but even an hour or two should do the trick.”

If Q had answered immediately, Bond would have pegged his answer for a lie, but the Quartermaster paused and considered for a moment before his sharp chin bobbed downwards in a nod.  “I can handle myself.  Is there anything I should do in the meanwhile?”

“Let no one in, and be prepared to wake me at a moment’s notice if anything seems fishy,” replied 007 without hesitation.  Another important point came to mind, and he smirked ruefully, “Wake me up with words before touch - I can’t promise how I’ll react to the latter.”

“Understood,” Q sighed, running a hand back through the wavy curls of his hair, “You’re lucky that I have no intention of running away, 007, or this would all be very inconvenient for you.”

Bond chuckled, secretly glad that Q had admitted to that.  “Yes, lucky me.  I’m a trained assassin who had just managed to knock himself on his arse, but at least his target isn’t planning to run for it.”  As wry as he sounded, he was mostly relieved.  Bond grunted, pushing himself up closer to a sitting position as he realized, “I should really drink something before nodding off-”

“No, I’ll get it,” Q stopped him when it was obvious that the muscular agent was really pathetically weak.  Bond’s frame was uncoordinated and almost shaking as he began to try and stand, and the Quartermaster easily beat him to it.  Giving vent to another sigh - one rife with frustration at his own tiredness - Bond collapsed against the bed and stared moodily at the ceiling, impatient with his own recovery speed.  At least Q didn’t keep him waiting long, returning a moment later with a cheap plastic glass filled to the rim with water.  “Do you have any multivitamins or supplements in that first-aid kit?  I imagine you could do with them.”

“Hmm,” Bond made an agreeing noise in his throat, appreciating the Quartermaster’s quick mind.  “There should be some vitamin supplements in a labeled bottle if you look.  I’ll worry about actually eating when I’m not seeing three of everything.”

Q glanced up briefly in his search of the first-aid kit, surprised at this symptom, but he quickly went back to digging around until he’d located the right bottle and tipped out one large, russet-colored pill.  One long-fingered hand cradling the pill, Q returned to Bond’s side, and Bond managed to get his strained body to cooperate enough that he raised himself up on one elbow.  Dizzy and exhausted he might have been, but 007 was still fully capable of taking the vitamin from Q’s hands and fixing it between his teeth, chasing it down his throat with long swallows of water that he took next.  It left him feeling a bit...steadier...but still fatigued.  Q remained standing over him in an undecided fashion as the blonde agent slid back down onto his back again.  

It appeared that Bond had sunk right into sleep until he said calmly, eyes still closed, “Q, you can stop looking at me and sit down somewhere.  Turn on the television - things are going to get quite boring.”

Q had jumped at the sudden return of 007’s low voice, and now his footsteps retreated to the other bed as he grumbled, “Cheeky bugger.”  After a pause, the television turned on, but it was kept muted, as Q alertly watched and listened for signs of trouble.  As 007 presumably drifted into a deep sleep - breathing evening, the rise and fall of his powerful chest changing its rhythm - the Quartermaster just listened, letting the little noises of the larger man drift into his ears.  It was unexpectedly soothing.  

~^~

“Bond.  Bond.  Agent 007, don’t make me splash water on your face, because I’m not idiot enough to get within arm’s reach.”

The final threat said in Q’s tense, terse voice finally roused Bond, and he growled in feral annoyance before forcing his eyes open.  It felt like he’d had sand ground under the lids and his muscles ached, but a mere flick of his eyes showed him Q: perched on the bed across from him, the Technopath held up 007’s phone, which was lit up to show that someone was calling it.  No one but MI6 called that phone, and honestly, MI6 never called either - meaning this was dead-serious.  Bond struggled up into a sitting position, totally ignoring his screaming muscles and lunging for the phone.

Q had been smart to wake up a fully-trained 00-agent from a safe distance, and he only stiffened and jumped a bit now as 007 jerked towards him.  Obviously, he had some inkling about how important this call must be, or else he just knew in the back of his brain that 007 wasn’t going to attack him after all this.  Bond would stop to think about Q’s unexpected trust of him later.  He grabbed the phone and immediately accepted the call.  

“This is Bond,” he said tightly.  

“Good, you’re not dead,” came back M’s voice, pleasant as ever.  “I expect a full explanation of your quick termination of your call earlier, but right now, I’m calling to warn you that MI6 security may be compromised.  Silva has a Telepath.”

M had a way of cutting to the point that was only rivaled by the sharpest of knives, and all of this information brought 007 to a standstill.  He froze, standing between the two beds, his remaining weariness (which was much, much lessoned after his sleep) forgotten.  “What happened?” he demanded.

Because Q looked to be dying of worry and curiosity now that 007 had tightened up like a piano wire, Bond took the phone away from his ear long enough to turn the volume up, letting Q hear.  The Technopath was a genius, and since he was being pulled back to MI6, he deserved to know what was going on.  M began to explain with her usual efficiency and coolness, “After the distraction MI6 sent to clear your escape with the Quartermaster, it was assumed that Silva and at least five of his fellows made a run for it.  It was a good day’s work, all told, and we apprehended no fewer than a dozen criminals known to follow Silva.  We thought we did it without casualties until 002 went missing.”

Bond looked over at Q, but neither of them had any signs of comprehension on their faces.  This all sounded like good news to them so far.  They waited for M to continue.

And she did.  And they realized how things had gone suddenly and terribly wrong.  “We have yet to confirm that the Telepath is with Silva, but we know that a Touch-Telepath attacked 002 and stole valuable information from his mind.  Lucky for us, 002 is nearly as durable as you are, 007, because the Telepath tried to kill him after pillaging the contents of his head.  002 is presently in Medical being treated for multiple gunshot wounds, but he managed to warn us about the security breach.”

“Q, did Silva have a Telepath with him?” Bond turned away from the phone to ask imperatively, mind a whirl of thoughts as it processed all of this.  Everything had been turned on its ear - every plan of getting Q back somewhere safe.  If MI6 was breached, nowhere was safe.  

“No,” the other man replied immediately, serious and focused, “Not when I was with them.”  

Now 007 was turning his attention to M, in turn demanding from her, “What did the Telepath learn?  Was 002 able to recall the information that the Telepath got from him?”

“To some extent, yes.”  Clearly, M had already thought her way down this path, and was only going over it again for Bond’s sake.  “002 had access to vital security and communication codes, just like all agents, and remembers enough of the attack to know that some of that information was accessed by the enemy.  We’re facing an imminent threat, but at least we have some idea what we’re up against,” M finished ruefully, “Nonetheless, this is a warning to not return to headquarters.  As much as I’m loath to say it, you must be safest right now to stay in the wind, with Q.”

“Bond,” Q interrupted forcefully, his determined tone catching 007’s glacial eyes, “I can access information on this Telepath.  It’s a rare skill, but not as easy to hide as people think.  Take me to my place, and I can find him for you, and maybe even prevent a break in MI6’s systems.”

“Is that Q talking?  What in Heaven’s name is he going on about?” M muttered in Bond’s ear.  She was clearly stressed out by this, but her fear for her organization was only showing in little bits and pieces.  It was audible in the way her clipped tones were frazzled around the edges, irritation and frustration slipping out where it would usually be locked away and buried deep.  

006 was known as MI6’s most annoying agent, but 007 usually followed at a close second for pure cheek - right now, however, he decided that M didn’t need any lip from him.  “He says that he might be able to help us,” he replied, eyes still on Q.  For his part, Q didn’t look away or blink, clearly wanting to prove his sincerity.  

“Help how?”

Q had heard the question from the phone, and wet his lips before answering as succinctly as possible, “With access to my personal systems and with my Telepathic powers online, I can work fast enough to outpace any attacks that might be directed at MI6 - and track them back to the source.  This Telepath of Silva’s may have MI6 codes and inside information, but you…”  The faintest of cold smirks twitched up the sides of Q’s mouth, and Bond found his devil-may-care, predatory side humming happily in response to the look in Q’s eyes.  Q finished, “But you have me.”

M must have heard everything through the phone line, because her voice was immediately commanding in 007’s ear, “Whatever you have to do, 007, do it.  So long as Q can keep MI6 was becoming just another roach beneath Silva’s boot, you help him do it.”

“Understood, Ma’am.”

“That means keep him in one piece and take orders from him,” M clarified sternly, “You’ve got a bad track record on both of those categories.”

Bond rolled his eyes as he wouldn’t if he were actually face-to-face with the imposing woman.  “Shoot one witness and I’m labeled for life.  The man survived, you know.”

By now, Q had his eyebrows raised worriedly into his tousled hairline, but M merely finished up the conversation with a few more curt orders.  She continued to hide just how scared she was with cutting remarks and iron words, all of which 007 took with aplomb - even if he was known for insubordination, he had the charm to deal with M at her snarkiest.  Finally, he hung up, turning to Q and lazily hooking his thumbs into his pockets.  The Technopath was eyeing him watchful, unsure what to anticipate.  

Bond returned his gaze with an unconcerned look from keen blue eyes, shrugging and saying, “It looks like I’m taking orders from you now, Quartermaster.”

~^~

The two had cleared out of the hotel room barely half an hour later, Bond saying that he’d got enough sleep to make him serviceable again.  “Believe me, Q, I’ve done jobs in worse conditions than this,” Bond had assured the other man with a crooked smile.  00-agents were used to doing at least half of their work in sleep-deprived conditions, and even 007 could be worn out if he couldn’t be injured for long.  

Bond paid and they left, all without catching anyone’s attention - just how he liked it.  Once they were in the car again, he commanded Q to get some sleep.  Q had given directions to where they were going, and 007 was secretly eager to see where the elusive Quartermaster had been hiding all this time.  “Is Q your real name?” Bond asked out of the blue as they began driving with the early morning sun behind them.  

The Quartermaster paused in arranging himself in his seat to sleep.  Green eyes latched onto 007’s face as Q let the silence stretch.  Then he went back to arranging the jacket over his shoulders so he could curl up and nap.  “Now why would you want to know a thing like that, 007?”

Bond knew a delicate subject when he heard one.  He shrugged and swiftly distanced himself from it so that the Quartermaster wouldn’t feel more threatened than he already was, “Just curious.  I live my life by moving faster and knowing more than the next guy, so it’s in my nature to be curious.”  

“Well, you can stop being curious about my real name, because you’re not going to have it,” Q informed him frankly, finally getting comfortable and folding his sparse frame against the window.  “Before you get upset about that, remember that we’re going to my home today - my base of operations that everyone has been trying to find for so long.  Will that sate your curious nature?”

“I might,” Bond smirked on one side of his mouth.  He wanted to ask how in the world Q could sleep as he was, wedged between the door and the seat, but figured he was being nosy enough with a man not used to company.  Q trusted him enough to stay with him, but not enough to give him his name.  That rather cut out the option of constant questions.  

Thankfully, Bond was as used to silence as he was to lack of sleep, so he turned his attention seamlessly back to the road while the Quartermaster settled down.  M had said that MI6 would do anything to keep Silva and his men off their tail if it meant the Quartermaster defusing this situation before MI6 fell, meaning that so long as 007 kept them on the move, they’d reach Q’s hideout without any further fighting.  They had a limited time for that, however, so it would mean no stops.  With every hour they were on the road and out in the open, the risk increased that they would be attacked and their mission would stop right there: Bond would be captured (and likely tortured until someone found out how to kill him) and Q would be back at Silva’s mercy again.  Looking at the Quartermaster - the man without a name, the man who had been nothing but a voice in 007’s ear before now, the man who was now catching a few winks of sleep huddled beneath a worn leather coat Alec had packed for Bond - Bond knew that that wasn’t an option.  

Q must have been exhausted, because he slept without stirring for the first three-fourths of the trip.  Bumps in the road and the sounds of cities as they passed didn’t rouse him, and Bond felt so adverse to waking him in the end that he placed a hand on the Technopath’s shoulder when they made a sharp turn - Q would have been startled if he’d awoken to find 007’s calloused hand holding him in place so that he didn’t slide in the seat with the momentum.  Fortunately, the wiry Technopath merely shifted in his sleep, taking no notice of the warm, strong fingers even as they released him.  Bond let his hand linger for a moment.  

“You’re getting soft, James,” 007 warned himself, returning his hand to the business of driving.  

Q woke up about half an hour before they were to reach their destination, startling for no reason and then alertly inspecting the buildings outside the windows.  Sleep fled from his eyes swiftly, but he’d barely even looked at what they were driving through before he said, “I know where we are!”

Giving his passenger a double-take (Q had been snoring softly under ten seconds ago), Bond asked carefully, “You recognize the streets?  I was about to wake you to make sure we were going the right way.”

“I recognized the circuitry,” Q corrected, still idly watching buildings and parked vehicles pass by, looking invigorated either from his rest or the prospect of being in familiar territory, “My powers just came back on and I can feel all of the technology around me.  It’s quite reviving, really.”  Q sat up a little bit straighter and pointed, “Turn here.  It’s a shortcut, and I sense fewer lumps of mechanical folderal, so traffic should be lighter.”

Grunting at Q’s sudden return to his Augment-self, Bond simply complied, mindful of M’s orders to follow Q’s orders.  Q seemed much more...relaxed...now that his abilities weren’t suppressed, even if he was also excitable at the same time.  They arrived before long at a nondescript, rundown building with barely a roof to its name.  

“It’s underground,” Q explained without prompting, reaching for the door to get out before Bond reached past him and held it closed.  So long as they were out in the open, they were doing things Bond’s way.  Q sat back and waited for 007 to get out and prowl around to his side of the car, trained eyes inspecting the area before letting the Quartermaster out.  007 had taken the time to don the same leather jacket Q had been sleeping under, the tough leather now hiding his gun even if nothing would perfectly hide the intense alertness and dangerousness that cloaked him like an aura.  

“Do you want to walk first?” Q asked with a cocked eyebrow as he took in this new behavior.  He’d worked with MI6’s 00-division extensively of late, but never in person, although he’d studied the protocol.  It was much different to now personally see the actions of a protective 00-agent.  

Bond shook his head, eyes never ceasing their tireless scanning as he moved up onto the curb.  “You go first - but expect me close behind you.  Nothing personal, but I want to be close enough to grab you if something unsavory happens,” 007 explained.  

Surprisingly, Q didn’t take the death of personal space too badly, even as he watched the muscular man come to within easy touching distance.  Even under normal circumstances with normal people, what Bond was doing would have been called looming.  “Understandable, 007.”

“Call me James, please,” encouraged Bond with easy charm, “At least so long as we’re where anyone could hear you.  The designation 007 is a bit of a giveaway.”

“Oh!”  Q’s eyes widened and he twisted around to look apologetically at the man behind him.  “Er...um...of course.  Yes...James.”

The smile on Bond’s face was a little bit broader now, and little bit less ironic and more sincerely amused.  “Q?”

“Yes?”  Green eyes blinked up at him.

“Let’s go inside.  I want to see this secret hideout of the Quartermaster, and I bet MI6 wants you to work on its security problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really a cliffhanger...not really... 
> 
> On the upside, if any of you have missed Q's little dog Kaleb, he'll be back soon! I haven't forgotten about him :) And you get to see Q's home, sweet home!


	10. 'Thoughtscape'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond enters the lair of a Technopath. 
> 
> Or the chapter in which Bond tramples on Q's thoughts a bit, gets 'thought around', and just generally realizes he doesn't know that much about powerful Technopaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry if none of the summary makes sense ;) I promise that the chapter itself does! And for those of you who are fond of world-building, he's a bit of Q's world :D

Bond followed the Quartermaster into the dilapidated building, just one in a long line of old warehouses that had fallen into disrepair with the rise of the Augment rebellion.  He expected Q’s shoulders to at least tense up at having such an imposing man walking close enough to virtually breathe on him, and was watchful both of the world around him and of his companion.  However, Q showed no signs of unease, but instead moved unhesitantly towards the building, reaching the door and opening it simply by placing his palm flush over the lock.  His brow beetled with concentration and there was a click of a lock opening.  

Interest glinted in the blue of 007’s eyes, and he commented with feigned lightness, “Handcuffs sure wouldn’t do anything to you, would they?”

Q snorted but also preened a little as he pushed in.  “Ironically, it’s the simplest of machines that boggle me most, so locks with tumblers take a lot of concentration on my part.  But this lock actually has a hidden electronic component, so even someone with a fitting key wouldn’t get in.”  

Once they were inside the walls, Bond relaxed a little, but still stuck close.  When Q walked up to an unremarkable spot on the floor (the building being empty save for bits of roof that had fallen in), 007 stood watch over him as he knelt down and once again splayed his long fingers on the surface.  Bond’s attention zeroed in on Q’s hands when he saw the faint glimmer of wires - paralleling the lines of human tendons - on the backs of Q’s hands as he used his powers.  Barely a moment later and a trapdoor was lowering on hydraulic hinges.  “Why the surprised face, James?” Q asked, humor curling up his mouth at either side and making his eyes lazily amused, “You’re visiting the hidden abode of a reclusive Technopath.  What else did you expect?”

“Very funny,” 007 muttered, just catching Q’s elbow to stop him from lowering himself down.  “This time I’ll go first.”

“And what if I’ve got some terrible security measure that will be tripped by your  going down there first?” Q challenged, but stepped back nonetheless.  

Bond just smirked, spreading his hands.  “I’m a Deathless, Q.  Anything short of you hiding an active volcano down there won’t slow me for long.”  With that, 007 slipped through the open trapdoor, catching himself on the ladder rungs with ease and a powerful flex of muscles.  

There weren’t any booby-traps waiting for him, as it happened.  Q said that he had some set up, but that he disabled them before 007 could set them off - most of what Q did required physical contact, but some things he was able to disengage from where he was a few rungs above 007, following him down.  While Q closed the trapdoor again and began turning on lights with a brush of his fingers to the wall, 007 surveyed the shadowed room, senses alert and interest at an all-time high.  

A low growl emanated from the shadows, and at the instant Bond heard movement, he’d drawn his gun and aimed.  He was aiming pretty low, however, because a familiar black-and-white dog had come running from under a desk of mechanical clutter.  Kaleb looked confused to see this familiar man in an unfamiliar place, and for a moment, dog faced tense 00-agent with a gun between them.  

“No!  Bond!” Q yelped, dropping the first name at the same time that he darted across the room to grab 007’s arm.  Apparently, all of his time at the hands of Silva hadn’t taught him to be afraid of a man like 007, because he more or less skidded into Bond’s chest before wrapping his hands around Bond’s wrist and forearm.  “It’s just Kaleb, my dog!”

Immediately, Bond lowered the gun; almost comically, Kaleb ceased to growl at the same time, fuzzy lips lowering over ivory teeth.  Making an aggrieved face, Bond informed the Quartermaster testily, “I wasn’t going to shoot your dog, Q!  I might draw my gun on anything that moves - I’m trained to do that - but it takes more than a dog to make me pull the trigger.”

Q’s slowly relaxed, putting on a jaded expression and slowly releasing Bond’s arm - also stepping back out of his personal space, the dim lighting doing a lot to hide any sort of uncomfortable blush.  Kaleb watched both men with a discerning eye before giving his tail one experimental wag and sitting down.  Clearly he wasn’t an over-affectionate animal, and simply watched long enough to see that Q was alive before turning to watch Bond again with bright eyes and pricked ears.  

While Bond holstered his gun, Q continued to putter around.  His hideout appeared to be composed of one big room that was one-third filled with gadgetry and mechanical clutter, poorly lit, with a completely-cleared space across from it that Bond couldn’t see the purpose to.  Nothing was particularly well-lit, but since Q sensed technology, maybe he didn’t need to see it.  “He’s a Canaan dog.”

“What?”

“Kaleb there - he’s a Canaan dog, at least in part.  Very strong survival instinct and fast learners so long as you don’t let them get bored,” Q happily explained his pet, “His name is sort of a reflection on the Hebrew version of what his breed is called.”  By now, Bond was reasonably sure that Q’s place was safe, and had relaxed to squat down and pet Kaleb.  The dog only hesitated a moment before trotting up to the foreboding agent and submitting to having his head scratched.  Q watched for a moment with a benign expression before continuing to the open section of the room and awakening a few more lights.  “I’ve got an automatic system set up to feed him on a regular basis, and there are ways for him to get in here - ways too small for a person to fit, of course.”

“Of course,” 007 smiled, scratching behind Kaleb’s right ear and earning a toothy grin.  After a few more pets, however, the dog turned to see what Q was doing and then let out a little bark.  

“Yes, Kaleb,” Q said from across the room, pulling down wires from the ceiling, “I’m setting up the Thoughtscape.  Bond, if you want to come over here, I’m about to start on our problem.”

Kaleb made a whuffing sound one more time before flicking his ears and disappearing into the shadows of the hideout.  In Q’s doings, the dog had no interest.  Bond got up and padded to the other side of the room, stopping when he saw a raised edge (not more than a couple centimeters) separating the cluttered side of the room from where Q was - and where the floor was beginning to glow a soft blue.  007 tensed and felt himself reacting as if to a threat.

“No need to be alarmed, Bond,” Q said calmingly, kneeling down to one side of the floor and still holding wires that led off into the shadows of the ceiling.  He looked in his element, truly, for the first time since Bond had laid eyes on him, and that more than anything got Bond to stand down.  Q continued to explain as he smiled wanly, “This is essentially a system that I put together years ago to amplify my powers - to ‘plug me in’, if you will.  Think of having a computer-”  He lifted one of the wires in his hands, and with his other hand, brushed his hair away from his nape; there was the glint of machinery under Q’s skin, and then he was literally attaching wires to the line of his neck.  Eyes tightening for only a moment, Q finished his sentence, “-And connecting it to the internet.  From here, I can use my powers and reach into almost anything.”

Fascinated and sickened in equal measures, 007 watched as two more wires followed the first, until Q looked like a marionette on three strings - a fish with three hooks forgotten in his neck.  His eyes had started glowing faintly, the result being that his glasses looked remarkably like computer screens until he turned his head, gazing at 007 directly.  That smile was still there, wan and dry, as he correctly interpreted the look on Bond’s face.  “It’s completely comfortable for me, believe it or not,” he made clear, then looked forward over the blank expanse in front of him and laid his palms on the floor.  “Now, let’s get to work, shall we.  This might take a bit, 007.”

Suddenly, that whole section of the room - everything around Q, everything beyond that division in the floor - was filled with ethereal images, a million shapes and images and connective lines painted in light until it looked like a galaxy thrown into the room.  Bond watched, wide-eyed, not bothering to hide how shocked he was.  “Q…?” he found himself asking in a low tone usually reserved for hostage situations.  “Any chance you can explain what’s going on here to someone less techno-savvy than yourself?”

“Of course, Bond.  These-”  The images didn’t so much as waver when Q lifted his hand from the glowing floor to indicate the forest of images, “-Are my thoughts.  It’s a visual representation of the contents of my brain, and it helps me think, especially when I’m trying to do something difficult on the side like hunt up a Telepath.”

Bond was growing more and more interested and less and less weirded out by all of this, and began to look with more curiosity at the projections filling the room. Everything was done in different colors, filling the whole spectrum of shades and tones; there were ethereal boxes filled with a million condensed points of yellow light like a world within a world, and magenta threads trailing between the different masses of thoughts.  Q’s eyes were flicking across this landscape, and as his eyes latched onto one, it sudden expanded, unfolding and filling up a larger section of the room as it fell under Q’s focus.  Bond began to differentiate numbers and letters like a web of computer coding unfolding.  “This is fantastic, Q,” he found himself saying unreservedly, smiling now.

There was a vaguer cloud of colors floating up and behind Q’s head, and it flared and flushed a few different shades as Bond spoke.  A smile stretched across Q’s face as his glowing eyes met Bond’s.  “Glad you appreciate it.  It’s useful, if nothing else - this is an algorithm I put together some time back to find any information on those two Telekinetics Silva had.  I should easily be able to reconfigure it to track anything to do with a Telepath instead.”  Already, the mesh of numbers and letters and mathematical symbols was changing and shifting - coding going on right in front of Bond’s eyes.  “Telepaths aren’t really that hard to track, because it’s hard to keep a low profile when you can drag thoughts out of people’s heads.  See, people like, say, you, are known for having information they shouldn’t have-”

Bond smirked, unrepentant.  

“-But Telepaths are defined by knowing things they can’t know.  They usually start showing up in the media without even realizing it, and very rarely live mediocre lives,” Q finished distractedly as the continued to visually maneuver his own thoughts.  The whole mass of code shifted and moved like a living thing, penned in by Q’s power and his thoughts.  

When Q felt silent, simply working on developing a program to hunt a Telepath, Bond discreetly observed the rest of the room, marveling at the fact that he was looking at the inside of Q’s head.  He couldn’t make much sense of it, of course, and wondered if all people’s minds naturally coded information in ways that they understood like this: in patterns of colors and shapes and interconnections.  007 caught sight of a series of interconnected cubes: they varied in dimensions and the lines connecting them had a haziness, as if they were avoiding the eye.  What really piqued Bond’s interest was the hovering cloud of black-red around them, a color shared by nothing else in the expanse of Q’s mental landscape.  Curiosity getting the better of him (something that Bond only allowed when he was relaxed and not in a noticeably dangerous situation), Bond stepped past the raised edge of the floor and into Q’s territory, approaching the straight, hovering net of boxes with their dark haze.  

Q flinched and jumped like a cat that had cold water dumped on it, snapping sharply, “Bond!  You’re walking through my brain right now, and I can feel that!  You great bloody lump-!  No, don’t go back.  Just…!  Just stay put.”  Q calmed down while Bond stood and blinked, caught in the middle of a sea of thoughts and now afraid of moving.  “I’ll think around you.”

True to his word, Q did think around him - in fact, Bond got to watch as the galaxy of thoughts shifted and contorted, accommodating the foreign object that had waded into their midst.  Now, however, Bond got to see it all from the inside, and he felt quietly awed by this sudden look inside Q’s brain.  

“I’ve almost got that algorithm done,” Q said, eyes flicking around at different points around Bond while the 00-agent stood there.  

“And if he’s already putting his stolen information to use?” Bond asked sensibly, “It’s possible that he’s already mounting an attack on MI6’s security, especially if he and Silva are together and know that they might be up against you.”

“Hmm, true,” Q considered, “Silva was fully aware of how powerful I was, and could easily have deduced by now that I’d be working with MI6.  Hmm.”

Shapes and balls of ideas whirled around 007 again, never touching him, and he watched as Q narrowed his eyes and focused to unfold one of those neat, concise shapes.  Bond got the distinct impression that the Quartermaster literally was juggling ideas around, this unique Thoughtscape allowing him to combine and test out ideas in a different way than normal folk.  Then Q gave up on whatever that had been in a huff, and suddenly the long webbing of red-clouded thoughts was maneuvering past James’s left shoulder to fill the entire space between himself and Q.  This time, Bond kept his mouth shut and his curiosity to himself, even if he shifted from foot to foot and chafed under the forced inactivity.  

Q noticed, and chuckled a little.  He shifted to stand up, and the whole landscape moved around him, the very glow on the floor changing.  The wires connected to his neck still made Bond’s skin crawl, and now their extra length draped down the Quartermaster’s back as he approached his own ‘ideas’ directly across from 007.  “These were what caught your eye, aren’t they?”

“Maybe,” Bond allowed, embarrassed but hiding it well.  

“Well,” Q couldn’t completely hide a smirk, “you may as well know, this is all of my knowledge of your organization.  I have a very analytical, compartmentalized mind by dint of being essentially a real-life cyborg, so similar information gets grouped in a visual way.  Now, you were going to ask about this, yes?”  Q’s fingers touched the haze of black-red that hovered a short distance around each block of information.  

If he squinted, Bond was actually seeing familiar terms, names, and numbers stuffed within the floating shapes like fish in a box.  “Go on, Q, just explain why these are the only things floating in your head that are...that color.”  He waved his hand at the foreboding haze, forgetting himself until his fingers accidentally brushed against them.

Q’s face scrunched up in a grimace as the motion brushed his thoughts again, but he didn’t reprimand Bond this time.  “Those are kill-codes - that color you’re seeing is a visual representation of a security measure that is active in my head, preventing exactly what happened to 002.  I’ve met up with one Telepath before, and know how they work.  More importantly-”  Q’s smiled was unfamiliarly flinty and toothy, devoid of humor and as sharp as cold cliff edges.  “-I know that I have a plethora of information I don’t want to ever give up.  Here, in the Thoughtscape, the kill-codes are benign-”

Good, because Bond had dragged his fingertips through it.  He was going to have to remember to stop brushing against Q’s mind when it was floating all around him...

“-But if a Telepath reached into my mind outside of here and tried to get MI6 information-” Q finished, voice going cold.  His eyes were unblinkingly on 007’s, and as unforgiving as any agent’s gaze could be.  He finished, “-They get five seconds of intense pain as warning, and then they die.  A Technopath’s mind is not a safe place to walk, because flesh is forgiving, but I’m not all flesh.”

Bond cocked his head but didn’t show surprise - he _was_ surprised, however.  Surprised by the coldness that the Quartermaster possessed, and the calculating drive that precluded regret or mercy.  The Quartermaster hadn’t lived as a rogue entity (free of both MI6 and Silva) by being a pushover, and being raped multiple times hadn’t broken his resolve.  

In the end, the 00-agent just shrugged acceptingly, intoning in a low voice, “You’ll only get encouragement from me, Q.  I’ve killed as many opponents as I’ve taken into custody, though.”

That vague cloud of colors behind where Q had been sitting flushed and shifted again, milliseconds before the Quartermaster smirked faintly.  Bond was beginning to wonder if that was to signify Q’s present thoughts - or maybe emotions.  If that were true, Bond wondered why the colors shifted every time 007 spoke…  He chuckled quietly and smugly to himself, and decided that being stuck standing in the middle of Q’s Thoughtscape wasn’t so bad if he could keep himself entertained by watching Q’s emotions in color.

“What are you smirking about, Bond?”  Q’s blink was guileless and bemused; the colors behind him shifted in turn to orange spiked through with white-green.  An instant later and Q saw where Bond was looking, and spun in time to a flash of maroon and yellow.  “You’re...? You noticed that, did you?”  He sounded embarrassed, and his cheeks were flushed as he turned back and tried to pretend he was still perfectly businesslike.  

“Does it express your emotions?” Bond guessed with a cheeky grin instead of answering.  

“No!” Q raised a finger pointedly, but he’d answered too quickly, and soon found himself explaining over 007’s chuckles, “Those are actually my active memories - real-time responses to my environment as they are being coded into actual memories.  It’s more than just emotional response.”

“But it is emotion,” pressed Bond, crossing his arms and enjoying the game, “at least in part.”

Q huffed a sigh and glared, the MI6 information with its dormant kill-code still filling the air between them.  “You’re insufferable.  Has anyone ever told you that?”

“More than I can count,” the agent shamelessly admitted.

“It figures.  You’ve grown inured to such comments.  Can you continue to act professional with my active thoughts changing color behind me?” Q sighed as if realizing he were dealing with a recalcitrant child.  

Since M often called her 00-agents ‘recalcitrant children’, this hardly fazed Bond at all.  He continued to contentedly watch the swirling colors past Q’s shoulder, fully intent on deciphering the shifting patterns that were now being tinted with a shade of blue the color of his eyes - the same color that had turned up when Bond had called Q’s work ‘fantastic’.  “Of course, Quartermaster.  I’m under your orders, after all, and I’m always professional.”

“Liar.  Just stand still until I finish up here.  I’m going to rewrite the majority of MI6’s security codes,” Q said, sitting down on the floor again and focusing until his eyes glowed a fierce blue, the wires exiting his neck shimmering faintly as well.  “Hopefully that will slow down any hacker, regardless of what codes they think they have.”

So Bond settled down for a long wait, stuffing his hands in his pockets and settling his weight evenly while he let the Quartermaster do his work.  The cloud of color behind Q’s head settled out until it was a steady, pale grey - giving away nothing and driving 007 swiftly to boredom - but whenever Bond grew fidgety or hummed to himself, Q noticed.  Sometimes he flicked an eye up to Bond, giving him a ‘Really?’ type of look, but sometimes the colors behind him simply changed.  Of course, neither the fidgeting nor the humming was something that Bond usually did, but certain calculated actions were necessary to see if he could get a reaction.

And since Q never told him to stop, and the colors shifted to sky blue more often than bruises of maroon, Bond tentatively decided that the Quartermaster didn’t mind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little hint of building emotions between the two :3 As I write more and more of this, I'm having a hard time balancing out Q's fear and his affection, so I'm erring on the side of caution and making the 00Q-progression pretty delicate. Hope you enjoyed it anyhow!


	11. The Triumphant, Strained, and Bloody Awkward Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it's back to MI6 for Bond and Q! Let's see how everyone handles it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a random note: I got part of the idea for this fic (or at least for Q's Thoughtscape) from looking at this picture, which I DID NOT DRAW. I was just looking through Q stuff on Deviant art, and when I found this, my brain exploded with fic idea :P   
> Link: http://maiacarlson.deviantart.com/art/Q-Branch-340605853

~^~

Bond was almost asleep on his feet by the time Q finally said, “All right, I’m done here.  At least for now.”  He glanced up and raised his eyebrows as if he hadn’t noticed Bond’s resting posture before, and observed bluntly, “You should get some sleep.  I’ll finish up here.”

“And what about me walking all over your thoughts?” Bond grumbled.  He wondered if he’d been standing here for hours for no reason.

Instead of being told to just walk through everything, Q concentrated, and the many shapes and ‘ideas’ moved.  It clearly took some focus and mental acrobatics on Q’s part, but he herded the images of his mind to either side until Bond could see a corridor.  “If you think you can manage walking through there, you can take a nap.”

“Gee, thanks, Q,” Bond joked, rolling his eyes and then his shoulders, which were growing as stiff as the rest of him.  His hips felt like they creaked as he got moving, striding from the glowing floor and finally back to the darker, more cluttered part of the Quartermaster’s home.  Secretly, he was glad to be back on ‘normal’ ground, and perhaps understood just why Kaleb steered clear of the Technopath’s Thoughtscape.  “Do you need anything?” Bond asked.  

Q was already ignoring him and focusing on his work.  He looked so otherworldly and alien now that Bond looked back at him, connected to a shifting world of holographic images by the tough-reacting panels on the floor and a triad of cables rising from his spine to the ceiling.  If he heard Bond, he gave no sign - his focus was entirely on his task.  

Deciding that the two of them were about as safe as they were going to get, Bond went to investigate the hideout a bit and maybe find a cot or something to crash on for an hour or two.  

~^~

“Kaleb, get off!” Bond awoke to Q hissing from quite nearby, tone chastising, “Did you even ask to sleep on him?”  The dog actually gave out a gruff whine, to which Q tartly answered, “I thought not.”  Now Kaleb growled - a canine grumble - and Bond felt the warm, furry weight remove itself from the right side of his chest.  Only then did he open his eyes, lifting an eyebrow at the scene.  He’d fallen asleep on a cot he’d found half-obscured by what looked like engine parts, and had barely begun to doze on it than the black-and-white dog had come up to him, grinning with tongue lolling.  Before long, he’d been sharing space with Q’s dog, smelling dog-breath and having paws shoved up against his side.  For all that, it had been comfortable.  

Q looked embarrassed at having been caught lecturing his dog.  “Ah, 007, you’re awake,” he said in an attempt to regain some level of formality, standing and straightening his shirt - and not just a shirt borrowed from Bond’s supply, but something that actually looked like it fit him.  Q must have taken the time to change since leaving the eerie Thoughtscape.  

Rolling his shoulders to ease out any tension in them, Bond reminded, “Light sleeper.  And you, Q - have you closed your eyes even once since we came here?”  He stood up, moving slowly so as not to startle anyone.  

It was an unnecessary effort; Q didn’t give the powerful agent a second glance.  “No, actually,” Q grumbled, reaching down absently to stroke Kaleb’s head as the dog came up to lean against his leg.  “While you were out, our Telepathic foe decided to mount his attack on MI6.  That kept me rather busy, coincidentally.  His name is Elias Winter, by the way, and he’s definitely working with Silva - a new addition to his team.”  For the first time, seemingly, Q noticed how tense and alert his resident 00-agent had gotten at the mention of an attack on MI6.  “Oh, I deflected the attack.  I would have woken you, but there was no point anyway.  All your could have done was watched me work, which is probably stunningly boring.”  Q jumped and scowled downwards as Kaleb made a disagreeing growl and caught the Quartermaster’s petting fingers between his teeth, gently but firmly.  Q pulled his hand back, and dog and master glared at each other in remarkably human fashion.  

Bond broke the visual stalemate.  “So MI6 is safe for now or safe for good?  You mentioned that your...MI6 memories...are guarded by a kill-code, but I didn’t know if that extended to anything else.”

“No, the kill-code is only for when someone tries to steal what they shouldn’t from my head, and isn’t operational when I’m plugged in here anyway,” Q straightened to address Bond again, “However, I repulsed all efforts to break through MI6 security with enough enthusiasm that a repeat attempt shouldn’t come again anytime soon.  The codes the Telepath stole from 002’s mind are obsolete anyway, although I think I locked out your boss, M, for sometime before I sent her the new codes on a secure channel.”

Bond snorted, his good mood returning now that he’d been reassured that MI6 hadn’t been overrun while he’d slept.  Q looked fine, too, or at least no more strained than he had been earlier - but 007 was beginning to wonder if that was a normal look for the slender, bespectacled man.  “Then our next order of business is to get you back to MI6,” Bond decided, easing out a breath at the thought of ‘going home’, as it were, “Can you be packed up and ready to leave in an hour?”

“B-Back to MI6?” Q stumbled a bit, lifting a hand and pushing his glasses up.  He was nervous, Bond could tell in an instant, and had perhaps even managed to forget that the point of all this was to get the Quartermaster back into the nest of MI6 - an MI6 that was safe from Silva and his gang.  Said safety now acquired, there was nothing halting their hasty return.  

Which had Q looking reluctant, his eyes dancing tellingly to the many familiar pieces of his life all around him.  Bond’s eyes softened fractionally in understanding.  They were in Q’s hideout - his stronghold - and after losing so much control of his life so recently, it made sense that Q would now want to cling to what was safe and familiar, and where he had power.  “We can always come back here, Q,” Bond intoned understandingly, “But you’ll be safer in MI6 - and this place will probably be safer if you’re at MI6, because no one will be looking for you outside of headquarters.”

“And everyone will be looking for me _inside_ headquarters,” Q deadpanned back, not enthused.  “Somehow that’s not as convincing as you might think.”

Undeterred, Bond’s lips quirked faintly in a cool smile.  “Yes, but inside headquarters, there are always multiple people with a licence to kill, myself included.”

That eased some of the tension out of Q’s shoulders, but he still tried to logically argue, “I can’t do as much anywhere else as I can here, with the Thoughtscape.”

“Can you build a new one?”

“Not easily.  Not quickly.”  Meaning that even if Q managed it, he’d have to survive a long period of feeling weak and unprotected until it was finished.  Before 007 could open his mouth to argue further, however, Q looked away with a sigh and gave in, “Fine.  Yes, yes, I know we have to go back to MI6.  I might have less technology at my beck and call there, but mucking about on my own, away from MI6, was what got me into trouble in the first place.”  Sharp green eyes snapped back to Bond’s warningly, and Q lifted an imperious finger, “But if MI6 wants me to do any complicated work, you’ll have to take me back here - there are at least a million things that can only be done here.  Although…”  Q’s eyes turned musing, his mind wandering.  “...I imagine I could come up with a rough prototype of some kind...a simplified version for when I need it...hmmm.”

Bond was just glad that he wasn’t going to have to drag the Quartermaster kicking and screaming back to base.  “We can have someone take you back here if ever the situation calls for it,” Bond agreed easily, knowing that such a situation undoubtedly would arise.  After all, there was little point in having a Technopath and not putting to use the full extent of his powers.

Already beginning to forage about for things to take with him, Q called back to Bond distractedly but also tensely - a tone that was brittle and yet broached no argument.  “No.   _You_ will bring me back here.”  The Quartermaster would not meet his eye, preferring to hunt about amidst the clutter for a bag to put personal effects in, but even in the poor lighting, 007 could see the embarrassed flush tinting Q’s cheekbones and ears.  The excuse Q gave for his demands was a second too slow to be believed by a veteran liar like 007, “The fewer people who know about this place, the better.”

There was the option of arguing, but instead, Bond took the easy route out, reminding himself that he was supposed to be following Q’s orders until further notice anyway.  “Understood, Q.  Can you be ready to leave in an hour?”

“You already asked that.  And yes, I can.”  Q stopped his clipped replies when Kaleb danced over, unexpectedly serious for a dog.  He didn’t looked either worried or confused by the bag that Q was packing, but instead stared steadily at his owner with his ears tilted back slightly.  Q sighed and stopped his hurried packing, squatting down.  Instead of petting the dog like most leaving owners would, Q cupped the dog’s face between his hands so that they could be eye-to-eye, something that Bond thought he’d heard you weren’t supposed to do with a dog.  Something about direct eye contact being challenging.  “Okay, Kaleb.  You know where the food is, although goodness knows you can find food on your own,” Q began calmly lecturing the canine, “You have to stay here-”

“Bring him along, Q,” Bond suggested on a whim.  When Q shot him an incredulous look over his shoulder, Bond scratched uncomfortably at the back of his neck - he was not going to admit that he liked Q’s dog.  “You’re the Quartermaster, Q - no one in MI6 is going to say no to you at this point.  Plus, I imagine there’s plenty of room for one dog in the Tunnels.”

Immediately, Kaleb’s tongue was lolling happily out of his mouth and he was shaking his head out of Q’s grip while the Quartermaster glared hesitantly between agent and dog.  “Bond, you have to understand,” Q tried to reason, “Kaleb’s a bit more trouble than your ordinary dog…”

“So?” 007 shrugged, smirking crookedly, “I’m more troublesome than your ordinary agent, and M still keeps me.”

“Yes, but…!”  Q was quickly running out of arguments, and gestured helplessly at Kaleb (who had darted happily off to the food-bowl nestled in a corner across from the Thoughtscape).  “Kaleb is-!”  Q cut off with a helplessly resigned little sound, looking after the black-and-white dog.  

“Kaleb is what?”

“Nothing,” Q sighed, giving up on something - arguing, likely.  He went back to packing, grabbing some things that looked essential, some personal, and some things that Bond couldn’t even identify but looked technological, including what might have been a laptop at one point.  

~^~

Kaleb happily took up the back of the car, and Bond merrily thought about how 006 would take the smell of dog in his vehicle.  This wasn’t 006’s personal car, of course, but Alec used it often enough that he’d notice the new, canine scent clinging to it.  Bond expected to have Kaleb barking at the windows and passing cars for the whole trip, but instead, he curled up quite happily in the back left corner and merely watched everything.  Q, on the other hand, was far less relaxed, sitting tensely and tapping his fingers constantly on the edge of the door.  

“Q,” Bond said, blue eyes sliding to the other man, “No one is going to attack us along the way.  I called M before we left, and she has 003 and 5 running interference.  Besides that, I’m watching.”

“I know, I know,” Q sighed, but didn’t stop fidgeting.  Really, he wasn’t look around them for trouble - he was looking ahead.  MI6 was what scared him now, sewing nervousness deep into his bones.  “What should I expect?” he finally asked in his most professional tone.  ‘ _Distract me_ ,’ was what Bond heard when he read between the lines.

“Probably a security check,” Bond started, thinking things over, “Although that’s more a matter of protocol than anything else, seeing as you know our security inside and out by now.”  Q was nodding, taking in these facts and finding comfort with them, which made Bond more regretful to have to add, “And...I expect a psych eval and a trip to Medical.  The latter will be completely unnecessary, though.”  Bond's Deathless ability to heal others would have cleared up any injury to the extent that Medical wouldn't even find signs of anything, except perhaps old scars.  

Q had gone stiff and still.  “And the former?”

“I’m not one to judge,” Bond shrugged, not about to answer that.  On the best of days, he himself was one of the worst patients ever to go through the Psyc deparment.  However, he felt qualified to add solemnly, after having spent the past few days with Q, “I think you came through this with more strength than a lot of people ever would, but there’s no harm in going to Psych.  That being said…”  Bond paused and made a grimacing face.  “...Trips to Psych seem to drive me up a wall, so I can’t recommend visits.  Don’t trust my opinion - all 00-agents develop an allergy to Medical and Psych before we're even promoted.”  

That actually tricked a small chuckle out of Q, and the tension in the vehicle finally eased.  From where 007 could see Kaleb, the dog started wagging his tail, looking between both men.  “If I’m to be part of MI6 now, I suppose I may as well follow protocol.  A psychological evaluation will be...troublesome...but I’ll endure it.  It can’t be worse than listening to you talk like flesh on sandpaper when your throat was healing up.”

Bond noted that Q didn’t say, ‘ _It can’t be worse than being passed around amongst Silva’s cronies_ ,’ but didn’t bring it up.  He’d realized that at the start of this conversation, Q had been starting to tap out a nervous rhythm with his fingertips as if trying to ground himself with the familiarity of a pattern - much as Bond had grounded Q with a pattern back when he’d been playing the role of buyer.  Q didn’t appear to notice the new tic, but Bond filed that away in his head as something to watch out for.  One way or another, Q had stopped now, hands merely fluttering against the doorframe.  On a whim, Bond shifted his own hand, drumming the fingers of his left on the wheel: a quick run of smallest finger to largest, a pause of equal length, then repeated.  Sneaking glances, Bond watched the Quartermaster when he wasn’t watching the road.  Yes, Q was calming down and relaxing.  Behind his glasses and fall of tousled hair, Q’s eyes were unfocused, but he was relaxing into his seat, so Bond kept up the faked habit for a bit longer before dropping it and letting the car fall into comfortable silence.  

~^~

The return to MI6 was everything that Bond had expected: hectic, triumphant, strained, and bloody awkward as hell.  He’d noticed Q bracing himself for the last few miles in, while the majority of 007’s attention was on keeping an eye out for any last-minute attacks by enemy Augments, and Q had on a calm, aloof mask on by the time they left the car and headed into the building.  Bond walked a careful pace behind and to Q’s right, by now simply accepting that Q didn’t mind the close proximity, directing Q where to go while Kaleb shadowed them both.  The dog hadn’t barked since leaving Q’s hideout, and was silent and watchful now, triangular ears up and alert.  When they’d actually walked through the doors and made it into MI6 itself, Bond breathed a half-sigh of relief before bracing himself for the next step: integrating the elusive entity called the Quartermaster into the hive of MI6.

M, as he’d suspected, was personally awaiting them, as well as pretty much every higher-up personnel that could cram into the room.  Word about Q’s arrival had spread, apparently.  

Q was strung tighter than a piano wire, and yet managed to portray an aura of iron control as he strode in.  Kaleb, unexpectedly, fell back so that he was more or less hidden by 007, as if knowing that the blue-eyed agent would be at the edge of attention instead of at its center like Q was.  Smart dog.  

“007.  No more excitement on the last leg of your trip, I trust?”  M, at least, was keeping her attention on her agent, even as Medical personnel flocked around Q.  The Quartermaster wasn’t sure how to take it, and was shooting looks at 007 - Bond hadn’t told Q that it was okay to let out the little secret about Bond’s status as a Deathless here.  

Before answering M, Bond called over softly, “It’s okay, Q.  M and Medical all know.”

Briefly, the Quartermaster nodded, a formal tip of his head, and then he turned to speak to the nurses and doctors around him.  What he told, Bond didn’t know.  If he chose to lie about what had happened, that might cause a problem later, but there was no longer any physical evidence of assault to prove anything if Q didn’t want to admit to it.  

Now 007 had to face M, however, and temporarily forget the mental stability of newly-acquired Quartermasters.  “No, ma’am, no excitement.  Even Q’s defense of MI6 security was quite boring.  Actually…I slept through it.”

M arched an imperious brow as if unsure whether her most roguish agent were just pulling her leg, and then decided she honestly didn’t want to know.  “I expect to hear the details of it in your report later.  We had some tense moments here, but we’re glad to have you back in one piece.”  The brow arched higher, and she looked carefully between 007 and Q.  “You are in one piece, correct?”

Partially because it sounded like a threat and partially because it was mostly true, 007 nodded, again finding himself catching Q’s eye.  He didn’t look like he was going to having a breakdown right now, but it looked like the piano-wires of his tension were very close to snapping.  “Do you want Q debriefed or sent to Psych first?” Bond asked, eyes never leaving Q’s - and his morals not regretting for one second that he was throwing Q under the metaphorical bus of the Psych department.  After what Q had been through, he needed to talk to a professional - someone other than Bond with his brief replies, jaded smiles, and questionable hisotyr.  Bond could understand what Q had gone through, but he didn’t believe that he could counsel him on it.  “He doesn’t need to go to Medical.”

“I gathered that,” M quipped back, now turning to face Q but still reprimanding Bond for a beat longer, “That was bloody foolish.  Welcome, Quartermaster.  We’re happy to have you with us, and hope you feel the same.”

Q blinked for a moment, calculating how to respond, but was silent for only a beat before he managed, “Thank you.  No, you needn't worry - I’m quite happy to be here, and eager to get to work.  I suppose I've had enough of protecting MI6 just from the outside.”

“Good.”  M was as brief as ever, and never wasted breath or time.  “I’m as eager to put you to work as you are, but first, follow me.  I’m going to debrief you personally, and plan things from here.  Bond?”

“Yes?”  007 stepped forward.  Usually, he was anything but obedient, but decided that he should keep on M’s good side at least so that Q didn’t see him get a tongue-lashing.  That level of embarrassment Bond would like to avoid.  

“Since I know you’re not bleeding to death or otherwise incapable of working a bit longer, you can move Q’s things.  Tanner has a place set up for him in the Tunnels, where security is highest.”  Over M’s shoulder, Bond noted the way Q relaxed a fraction.  In fact, 007 was so busy keeping tabs on Q (something that he’d gotten used to doing as part of his job) that he forgot about Kaleb until the dog started wagging his tail against the back of his ankle, making him jump.

For a tense moment, everyone went utterly still and silent as M gazed down at the dog.  Kaleb stared back with a dog’s lack of inhibition, tongue lolling out and teeth politely showing.  For a long while, the dog and the head of MI6 locked gazes, and everyone tensed as if witnessing the slow countdown of a live bomb.  

“I’m not going to ask,” M finally said, breaking the silence, and turned to march off to her office.  She clearly expected the newly arrived Technopath to follow.

‘ _I’ll watch him_ ,’ Bond mouthed to Q, pointing at Kaleb.  

At that point, it was proven for certain that Q could read lips, because he flushed with embarrassment and gratitude and mouthed back a very clear, ‘ _Thank you_.’  Then the overwhelmed Technopath went to trail after M, and whatever else his introduction to MI6 entailed.  MI6 now had their Quartermaster.  

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be a few chapters before he comes back, but remember the name Elias Winter...
> 
> Anyone getting suspicious of just how smart Kaleb is yet? Find his relationship with Q odd?


	12. A Touch to the Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is back at MI6, and things are running smoothly.
> 
> Or, at least, Bond thinks they must be, until he manages to do something wrong and get called for M's office for a very unexpected talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun to write! I'm trying to keep ahead of the postings, and so far, it's working - so you can keep expecting weekly updates!

Two Weeks Later

~^~

After delivering the Quartermaster’s few things to a room prepared beneath MI6, likewise settling in Kaleb and warning a few people about the fact that said dog was a legal member of their organization now (more or less).  That done, the MI6 agent had gone to the section of the building generally designated for 00-agents, wondering when it had come to the point when he actually had living quarters in MI6.  He preferred his own place, but with Silva’s men no doubt riled up by Q’s cyber-counter-attack, orders were being sent out that everyone remain ‘on-base’ unless absolutely necessary.  Bond wasn’t known for following orders, but it was too much hassle to bother.  

That first morning, he’d woken up in his small, simple room, still smelling like the mission and with Kaleb scratching at his door.  

The dog spent the next day with 007, presumably because his actual master was still either talking with M or the Psych department - and probably with Medical, too, because while they knew about 007’s Deathless powers, they were incredibly curious about people healed by it.  Bond didn’t envy Q the barrage of tests and questions he was no doubt facing, and hoped M would call off the doctors before they completely alienated their new Quartermaster.  

After that, Kaleb departed from 007’s side, the two going their separate ways - both being independent creatures.  Bond heard that Kaleb took up happy residence in the Tunnels.  He also heard that Q was being settled in as well - and knew that for certain as soon as he was sent out on a new mission, and told to go to ‘Q-branch’ for supplies.  When he stalked into the department, wary but interested, he was greeted by a veritable beehive of activity, tables of half-finished projects manned by swarms of employees.  He was greeted by one such minion with a new model of gun and a watch capable of tracking his location and interfering with any signals besides his own in the area.  “So that if you get in trouble with an Augment,” the little balding man explain quite excitedly, “at least they won’t be able to call for back-up, or receive remote orders via cell-phone.”

“Your earpiece will work fine, though,” called a familiar voice across the room.  

Bond lifted his head immediately to look towards the voice, unexpectedly glad to hear it, and just caught sight of tell-tale head of dark-brown hair half-obscured by a mountain of gears and wires and possibly motor parts.  The Quartermaster could be heard sharpy lecturing those around him and ordering them about, and Bond smiled, because he knew that voice.  

He left on his mission, and was swiftly greeted by a calm, professional voice in his ear: “Good morning, 007.  Are you rested sufficiently for your mission?”

“Does it matter if I am?”  Despite his words, Bond was smirking.

Q must have heard the irrepressible, cheeky humor in Bond’s voice, because he replied drily, “Seeing as you’ve had three days to rest, no, it doesn’t matter.  Have you not slept well, 007?”

“Slept like a baby, Quartermaster.  Now what do you want me to do?”

~^~

MI6 hadn’t worked anywhere near this smoothly since the rise of the Augments.  Silva would be regretting from now on out that he didn’t just kill the Quartermaster when he had the chance, because Q was swiftly becoming the heart of MI6 and pumping blood to extremities that had nearly been dead before he’d come.  Now the whole organization was shifting and flexing its muscles with new life, with a Technopath smirking dryly at its core.  

Bond had been on a mission for the past two weeks, and before that, he hadn’t seen Q all that much besides brief exchanges of tech.  At first, Q had seemed nervous and strained, but he’d kept his chin up, and always talked with the same self-assured professionalism as always, proving that he’d survive this.  

The conversations through earpieces had been...somewhat less professional, although never anything that would get 007 written up for unbecoming conduct.  He simply found Q easy to joke with.  Part of Bond’s everyday work was knowing when to push and when to hold back, and he was known for tending towards the former - however, with Q (and Q’s history of assault now), 007 was being uniquely careful.  Instead of being bawdy, he was chivalrous, although there was always just enough cheek in their conversations to keep them interesting - Bond always toned it down when Q reminded him that they were on an open commlink, but the chats were always fun and kept 007 from growing bored in the quiet moments during missions.  He imagined that Q enjoyed it somewhat, too, if only because the Quartermaster never made excuses to turn over 007 to another handler.  

Besides, missions always ended better with Q involved.  

“No, I need the V-class model,” came Q’s deceptively mild voice over the general hum of Q-branch as Bond sauntered in and dropped his battered kit on an empty table, finally back in MI6 again after his two-weeks out and about.  Bond smirked because he knew that that voice could be the precursor to a monumental tongue-lashing.  All agents knew that already - 006 had, in fact, fallen prey to that calm voice on pretty much Q’s first day overseeing a mission from MI6.  He’d thought Q was just a spineless techy with a mild voice, and had then gotten the surprise of a lifetime when Q had verbally lit him up like a Christmas tree.  Fortunately, 006 had been smart enough to stay out of the country since then, and at least he respected the Technopath now.  

Apparently, Q’s underlings had learned not to take Q’s mild manners for a mild temper, and no yelling ensued.  Q was deep in a project, and Bond’s eyebrows rose as he came close enough to see the mountain of bolts, wires, and indescribable metal bits on the table.  That in itself was normal enough from every other time Bond had been around, but what made Bond circle uneasily like a wary cat instead of directly approaching was the fact that the whole mass was writhing.  

Everyone was milling around Q like minnows around a shark (carefully keeping a bubble of space around him), and a space likewise opened up around Bond as soon as the minions detected someone with a licence to kill.  He came up to Q without interference, naturally swinging around so that he’d be within the man’s peripheral vision long before he got within arm’s reach.  Q was standing and watching his ever-shifting mass of mechanics, one hand braced on the stainless-steel table and the other poking and prodding at things.  “Q,” Bond said, coming up and placing one hand on Q’s shoulder to drum his calloused fingers thoughtfully while Q simply continued to work, “Why does this...thing...look alive?”

Unexpectedly, instead of putting some distance between himself and the 00-agent, Q leaned subtly into the touch with a faint hum.  “Afraid it might be smarter than you, 007?” he queried with a faint, proud smile.  

007’s fingers tightened subconsciously on Q’s shoulder as a trio of wires waved threateningly close, making him narrow his eyes and tense.  “I’m afraid I might have to shoot it if it gains sentience.  What the devil are you doing, Q?”  

Q’s smirk twitched wider, but he kept his attention on his work.  “I’m being a Technopath, obviously.  None of this is moving on its own - my powers simply extend to anything technological, sort of like a Telekinetic with very specialized skill-set.  You didn’t think that de-bugging software was the extent of my capabilities, did you?”  

It was rare that things made a 00-agent truly uneasy, but Q’s projects managed the job handily.  Bond (hands to himself again, if only so he could reach for his gun if necessary) back up a bit, warily eyeing...whatever it was.  “Do I need to call security on this thing?”

Perhaps the Quartermaster realized that Bond was entirely serious, because he chuckled and finally turned to look at him.  “Is the big, bad agent afraid of a bit of tech?”

“Considering how much of its technological siblings I’ve destroyed in the field, maybe I have a reason to be worried.”

Q was clearly fighting another snort of laughter, eyes mischievous behind his glasses - all in all, a vast improvement from how he’d looked when Bond had first brought him back to MI6.  He was still as lanky and thin as a new foal, but a few weeks of safety and stability had brought back some indefinable something to his personality.  

What Bond did not notice was that nearly every minion had frozen and blinked in shock when 007 had first come up to Q and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m attempting to rebuild my Thoughtscape,” Q finally began to explain, not minding the interruption because, for once, the infamously destructive 007 was afraid to touch anything, “Well, actually, I’m setting my sights a little bit lower.  With the supplies I have on hand, the most I can hope for is an advanced, computerized interface that will allow me to more easily assist agents in the field.”  Q turned his eyes back to the project, the irises glowing that faint, computer-screen-blue as he manipulated more wires and parts.  He grew slightly rueful, adding, “If I wanted to make a second Thoughtscape, it would probably take me the better part of a year to get together and work all the bugs out of it.  A Biolink will have to do.”  

“Impressive,” 007 nodded, even though all he could see was a big mass of moving tech.  That, if anything, increased his opinion of Q’s skills, however, because the Quartermaster could see the metaphorical butterfly in this writhing caterpillar.  

“You think so?” Q tipped an eyebrow.  He buried one long-fingered hand into the moving mass, pressing in until the limb disappeared past the elbow; anything that might have impeded or scratched his arm moved aside like oppositely charged magnets.  “And here I thought you just lived to throw my pieces of tech to large, foreign lizards.”

“Komodo dragon,” Bond corrected, “and if it helps, this project of yours is probably too big for me to so easily destroy.”  007 cocked his head, sifting his hands into his pockets and shifting his weight to one foot as he pretended to consider.  “Unless I had some C-4…”

“None of that!” Q waved him off with his free hand, looking somehow glorious as he reorganized the guts of his new ‘Biolink-in-progress’.  “After your last altercation involving C-4, I doubt I’m authorized to give you any.”

“That’s fine by me, Q,” Bond said with a smooth smile.

Q’s head jerked up, cautious and wary of the unexpected answer.  “It is?  Really?”

Wandering closer with lazy grace, thumbs still hooked in his pockets where Q would know they were less dangerous, Bond replied in a smiling voice, “Of course it is, Quartermaster.”  He was watching Q carefully - like a predator for every twitch and quiver, but without the killing intent - and because he didn’t see anything but mild amusement, he came until he was almost brushing the Quartermaster’s shoulder, leaning in to finish, “Because now I know that you have some.”

Only at this level of proximity did Q start to give off faint signs that Bond shouldn’t push him anymore - not that he was offended or uncomfortable yet, but more playfulness from the blue-eyed agent wouldn’t be appreciated.  Therefore, Bond stopped while the game was still fun, and was rewarded by a grudging smirk and a shake of Q’s head as he sauntered out.

He noticed then that an awful lot of Q’s underlings were staring at him then as if he’d done something either horrifying or extraordinary, but before he could ponder that, his phone buzzed.  Fishing it out of his pocket, he saw a message from M that made him frown preemptively, murmuring, “Great.  What have I done now?”

It read: ‘ _In my office.  Now_.’

Because running away was a rather childish reaction to being summoned by his boss, 007 sent back a reluctant: ‘ _On my way_.’

~^~

The problem with being James Bond was not that he couldn’t think what he’d done wrong - it was that the list was too long.  There were a dozen things he could think of off-hand that could be the reason behind M’s demand to see him...a goodly number of them he hadn’t thought she’d known about…

“Bond,” she greeted him as he stepped in, his footsteps light and wary.  M was just about as tense as he was, and sat up with ramrod stiffness as he approached her desk.  “What has bloody gotten into you?”  

Sometimes the wisest thing was to play it dumb.  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, ma’am.”  

Fortunately, before Bond was forced to maneuver the minefield of his own checkered past (trying to find out what he’d done without admitting to some other sin entirely and thus getting into more trouble), M informed him of the problem on her mind.  In a tone sharp with pique and disbelief and even a certain level of panic, she berated him, “The Quartermaster, of course!  I just got no fewer than nine messages and calls by Q-branch saying that none other than 007 had just waltzed in there and touched him.”

Now that James knew what M was talking about...he still didn’t understand.  He was used to knowing what was happening around him at all times, so this was possibly more unsettling than having a gun pointed at him.  Then again, being a Deathless, he could survive the gunshot…  “Is there a law against that?”

“Is Q all right?” M demanded.  Terrifyingly, she actually sounded worried.  M didn’t worry about anyone, so Q must have wiggled his way into her heart remarkably quickly, which didn’t really surprise 007 that much.  After all, his own heart had softened rather quickly for the bespectacled recluse, too.  

Bond nodded a yes.  In response, M looked as close to flabbergasted as she ever got, settling back in her chair and just blinking.  “M, what the bloody hell is going on?” Bond finally demanded to know.  

Sharp eyes flicked up to him, frank and keen, and M laid her hands out on her desk neatly before answering, “Bond, ever since Q got here and settled in, he hasn’t allowed anyone to touch him.  He barely tolerated Medical, and has reacted with panic to people so much as reaching to shake his hand.  I’ve got standing orders going around - literally a ‘hands-off’ policy, because I want the Quartermaster to continue helping us at top efficiency.”

The whole time M had been talking, 007 had been watching with a look of dawning surprise, finally understanding the looks he’d been getting in Q-branch.  

M continued with perfect frankness, “And now I get reports that you’re doing things that have nearly unhinged Q over the past weeks.  Tell me, 007, just what is it that makes you so special?”  Somehow, M managed to make that sound like an accusation, although at the same time she leaned forward, clearly wanting an answer.  

All Bond could think was that he should be the last person Q would trust to touch him, after their rocky start, especially if his aversion to physical contact had grown so strong that he panicked at the threat of anyone else coming near him.  He remembered how, every time he’d been in Q-branch, all of the minions had left a bubble of open space around Q - apparently, they’d been ordered to do that, for the sake of Q’s sanity and calmness.  Lifting his shoulders and dropping them in a shrug, 007 gave M the best answer he could and in the most honest tone he knew, “He knows me, I suppose, whereas he doesn’t know any of you.  Goodness knows he doesn’t have any reason to like me-”

“That’s an understatement,” M sniffed, “I’ve read your mission report.”

Bond winced and looked away.  He’d been quite discreet with his report, hoping to save Q the shame, but M had apparently gotten so used to him lying in his reports that she’d learned to read between the lines.  Somehow he doubted that Q had just up and told her everything.  “Well, your guess is as good as mine then,” he finished tetchily, a muscle working in his jaw.  

M sighed, taking pity on him and backing off a bit.  She even stood up and circled around her desk to stand in front of him like an understanding collegue rather than a distant, aloof boss, although the rest of her demeanor didn’t soften even a bit.  “I’m not reprimanding you, James, I’m just...surprised, that out of everyone at MI6, you’re the one Q has no problem with.  I suppose I should have taken into account your history.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Bond asked, for once not being belligerent - he honestly wasn’t sure what to do with this new information, and a bit of direction would be nice.  Of course, if M’s idea wasn’t to his liking, he’d just ignored it - 007 prerogative.  

“I’m not sure, actually,” M admitted her insecurity for once, pursing her lips and still taking this in.  She shot him a look and amended, “Don’t ruin it, obviously.”

The smile Bond gave his boss in return was thin and not really very humorous.  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.  I’ll try not to ruin our Quartermaster, since I’m the only one he doesn’t seem to mind.”

Bond turned to leave, but was just at the threshold when M’s musing voice drew him back.  Clearly, she was as shrewd as ever.  “You seem incredibly surprised that he would trust you, of all people.”  Bond froze.

Slowly, he picked an answer, half-turning his head over his shoulder towards the older woman.  “My having a licence to kill doesn’t count?  I'm told that quality makes me a hard individual to trust in the long-term.”

“Fine, Bond, if you don’t want to talk about it-”

“I don’t.”

M snorted disparagingly.  “Of course you don’t, Bond - no 00-agent does - but just know that I’m not as oblivious as you might hope I am some days.”

That, in the least, was true.  Bond sighed, accepting the inevitability of talking, even if M would eventually drop it if he stonewalled her enough.  Looking at the side wall so that M was faced with his expression in stark, rugged profile, he answered in a solemn, grim tone stripped bare of silver-linings, “I had to do some regretable things to get the Quartermaster out of there, the kind of things that make the line between hero and villain disturbingly grey.”

“Hmm,” M said, a noise that was carefully modulated not to show either rebuke or understanding - she was qualified to give neither, in the end.  She sent men on missions, but she didn’t go on them herself.  “Would these be the things that Q was rather cagey about in his report, and to the Psych department?”

“Maybe,” Bond shrugged, “I wasn’t... _nice_.”  He turned more fully and gave a grin like a skull cracking open, giving vision to his words as he explained a fact of life for many 00-agents: on a mission, being ‘nice’ was a luxury they rarely had.  More often, they could only grin through the pain and hope that when it ended in blood, most of the blood wasn’t theirs.  

M just made that noncommittal noise again, but now she nodded.  Her eyes were nonjudgmental.  “Well, it appears that whatever you did, Q has forgiven you for it, or at least accepted it all as necessary for his escape.  Don’t misuse that trust.”

“You mean don’t be an arse.”

“Yes, I do.  Now get out of my office!  You’re starting to be one.”

Chuckling slightly at the abrupt, typically-impolite dismissal, 007 turned on his heel and stalked out, counting this little talk as a win.  Then again, most times he was called to M’s office, she practically threaten to skin him and nail his hide to the wall, so anything less was rather nice, from time to time.  

Now to consider what he’d learned about the Quartermaster…

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing the parts where Bond is so careful around Q, and Q is so chill...around pretty much only Bond. Now begins the tentative steps towards more-than-friends...


	13. Not Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some contemplation between Bond and Q.
> 
> Some contemplation between Bond and Kaleb. What more could at 00-agent ask for? 
> 
> Until people start inadvertently picking on his Quartermaster...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you get a bit more almost-action! ...Okay, that was vague. This chapter has Bond being Bond (which means a curious mix between dangerous and caring), and for those of you who like Q's dog, he's back, too!

~^~

Still curious and also still off-the-job, 007 wandered back to Q-branch, and was let in again without a word - if anyone thought his quick return was strange, it was nothing in comparison to the strangeness existing between him and their haphephobic Quartermaster.  

Q was back to his pile of machinery, giving Bond a perfect chance to just watch him.  When Q was absorbed like this, he focused on his work to the exclusion of everything else, but it was still obvious that he was upset by people touching him or getting too close.  Bond shrewdly watched as Q (elbows-deep in his work again, eyes glowing that Technopath-blue as he wielded his power) subliminally sensed someone coming near him to drop off a mug of tea: the underling had walked up behind him and reached past to put the drink down, and Q froze and stiffened.  From where he was leaning against the wall, Bond could see how Q’s mouth thinned out into a bloodless line for a moment, and he read the swift apology on the minion’s lips a beat later before Q once again was given his personal space.  Q remained unmoving and tense for nearly three slow breaths after that, before work resumed with little or no interruption.  

None of that had happened when Bond had approached, but maybe that had something to do with the approach and not 007 himself.  He was trained to be utterly silent on his feet despite his build and size, but that also meant he was well aware that normal people on a typical day disliked having a fully-trained assassin sneak up on them unawares - therefore, at least with friends and MI6 coworkers, Bond was used to announcing his presence when he could.  Sometimes that meant purposefully making a sound; more often, it simply meant that he approached within a person’s range of vision.  That was what he’d done with Q, while the employee of a moment ago had unwittingly come upon Q unawares.  The average person often didn’t even think about such things, but with Q, it was all important.  

Of course, that didn’t explain why Q sometimes leaned into Bond’s touch instead of just tolerating it, especially since 007 kept unintentionally pushing the envelope with his tendency towards personal contact.  

“Bond, I believe that wall can hold itself up,” Q called over, breaking into the blonde man’s thoughts with his bland tone, “Any other specific reason why you’re back in Q-branch again?”

Bond lied as easily as breathing.  “Just wanted to make sure your metal monster didn’t get out of control.”

And, of course, Q saw through the easier lies.  He snorted without halting his work, “I appreciate the concern, but seeing as I’m a Technopath and can control technology with my mind - and all you can do is shoot and be shot-”  Bond noticed appreciatively that Q avoided mentioning Bond’s status as a Deathless: the majority of MI6 was unaware that he was even an Augment.  “-So really, if this project of mine were to suddenly gain sentience and go rogue, I’d be the one protecting _you_.”

Miming a harsh wounding - putting on a fake grimace and pressing a hand over his heart - Bond protested jovially, “Q, you can’t just say things like that!  My ego may never recover.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be all right,” Q oosed pleasantness without actually trying to make it sound all that real, but his eyes flicked over now to catch Bond’s expression, which was a small but amused smile.  “But if you’re going to hang around, be warned that I might make you be useful.”

Usually, avoiding work while off-mission was something 00-agents did as a matter of course, but this time 007 felt a rare itch to actually acquiesce.  Instead of making himself scarce, he pushed off from the wall, ears metaphorically pricked.  “What would you want me to do, Quartermaster?”

Q straightened and turned to blink at the agent, finally surprised.  He’d dealt with enough agents to know that helpfulness was not usually high on their list of traits - but 007 lived to be unpredictable.  “Good, you’re interested in doing something other than sitting like a lump.”

“I prefer to call it idle looming,” Bond corrected as he approached, “I’m good at it.”

“Hmm, true.  How about dog-finding then?”  

“Dog-finding?”  While Q turned to another table to dig something up, Bond slowed to a halt a healthy meter or so away - naturally knowing just how far his own strike-range was, and trusting that Q was sensitive to that as well, if for different reasons.  The tactic worked, as when Q turned around, he jumped a bit to see that Bond had approached but quickly relaxed again because of the healthy distance remaining between them.  

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to find Kaleb and see put a camera on him to see if he can map the tunnels,” Q said as if this were perfectly normal, opening his hand to show a dog-collar with presumably a little camera mounted on it.  “He wanders all over the place anyway, and I’ve been wanting to know the extent of the tunnels we’re connected to.  I’ve put together a camera that will take images and send them back to me, with a program to correlate their position and combine it all into a coherent map.”

“And you don’t have the spare time to find your dog?” Bond guessed dubiously, shifting his weight onto one foot and raising an eyebrow.  

“Nope, but apparently you do,” was Q’s cheery reply, complete with his trademark dry smile as he came forward and held out the collar.  Most people would have placed it right in Bond’s hand as he reflexively held it out, but Q’s painful ordeal showed in that his hand twitched and hesitated, freezing in place until Bond’s fingers unfolded so that he could simply drop it into the other man’s hand without making physical contact.  Then the Quartermaster took a careful step back, too, as if noticing for the first time just how close he’d come and how intimidatingly-sized 007 was.  Clearing his throat, Q quickly hid the reaction by straightening his glasses and continuing to instruct, “Just find him and put it on him - but make sure to show it to him first.”

Unoffended by this relapse in Q’s trust, Bond turned the camera and collar over in his hands and sat down in a vacant chair nearby.

“I know what you’re doing,” Q said, voice quieter.

Bond looked up with seemingly mild eyes - he was never, ever truly mild.  “Doing what?”

“Sitting down to make yourself less intimidating: decreasing your height and seemingly your size, taking up a position that indicates less of a threat.  I might be broken, but I’m not blind,” Q answered as easily as reading off a textbook.  He was talking quietly enough now that no one else could be listening.

Merely returning his look, expression turning thoughtful, Bond closed his grip on the collar for Kaleb and stood again in one smooth motion.  “You’re wrong, Quartermaster,” he said as he stepped closer - just a few steps, just enough to be a noticeable presence but still not close enough to touch if he reached an arm out.  Q eyed him, but it was with question in his eyes rather than fear.  Bond finished, “You’re not broken.”  

Those were words he’d wished he’d heard himself a million times in the past.

And then the 00-agent turned and left.  ‘ _Careful how involved you get in this, Bond_ ,’ he warned himself mentally, then began his odd task of dog-hunting.  

~^~

All Bond had to do was enter the tunnels and the black-and-white dog turned up, not even needing to be called.  His mischievous eyes and the playful bounce to his paw-steps said that he could just as easily run off again, making Bond wonder if Q had set him on a harder job than he’d thought.  However, Q’s dog trotted up to him, immediately jumping up to put his paws on the man’s leg, sniffing his pockets.  

Maybe Bond was a dog-person - whatever the reason, he found himself smiling.  “Sorry, no food this time.  If you want food, you can jolly-well wander back to Q-branch yourself.  Save me the trouble of hunting you up...”  

As he went to slip the collar on while Kaleb was within reach, however, the dog shied away with a little growl.  The canine eyes looked accusing as Kaleb hopped just out of reach, actually seeming to glare a bit.  

‘ _Make sure to show it to him first_ ,’ Bond remember Q’s instructions, and sighed to realize he’d forgotten already.  Grunting both in annoyance with himself and annoyance that Q had to have a dog as quirky as he was, 007 dropped down on his haunches and flourished the little strap with its added camera.  “Sorry,” he grumbled, but was pleased to see Kaleb perked up instantly again.  “See?  Just a fashion statement.”  Kaleb camed up and inspect it all, sniffing as much as looking, growing almost interested-looking as he got to the mounted camera.  “Of course, our mutual friends the Quartermaster had to upgrade it a bit.”  As Bond said that, Kaleb sneezed delicately, almost like a snort; the dog was either incredibly intuitive, or Bond was anthropomorphizing it way too much.  

Sure enough, as soon as the little dog had inspected it, he plopped his fuzzy rump down and stared at the human expectantly, coiled tail wagging.  

“Not going to run off this time?” Bond asked hypothetically.  Let Psych go nuts over the fact that he was talking to a dog.  “You’re an odd little fellow, you know that?” finished Bond as he strapped the collar in place - this time without trouble.  

Kaleb just blinked at him, head cocking and tongue lolling.

~^~

Bond actually kept Kaleb company for a bit, happy with the silent company.  Kaleb didn’t have a habit of barking, and likewise had no other idiosyncrasies to bother Bond - both of them liked the company without needing it, and therefore made a good team as they walked down increasingly dank and dark tunnels.  Bond wasn’t worried about getting lost; he was used to memorizing and then backtracking down paths he took, generally under far more stress.  The only thing that eventually stopped him and got him to turn back was the darkness, which he couldn’t navigate as well without a flashlight.  Kaleb whuffed softly and looked over his shoulder as 007 eventually stopped walking and turned to go back.  

“Either I turn back now or I trip and hurt myself and you have to drag me back,” Bond joked in the silence of the tunnels.  He was rewarded by another tilt of Kaleb’s curious head and another enigmatic, doggy grin.  “Don’t damage that camera,” he found himself ordering with mock seriousness - the only reason he didn’t feel ridiculous was because no one was watching.  “With my luck, Q would blame me for it.”  

Kaleb’s grin widened as if he understood or was amused by that, and gave another rare bark before spinning on his white back paws to head off into the darkness.  For awhile, the white patches of his body stood out like ghosts before all of him disappeared into darkness.  

Bond could really get to like an independent dog like that, odd as it was.  The same, he found, went for Q, and that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit…

~^~

Bond headed back to Q-branch, fully intent on informing the Quartermaster that he had a dog that was too smart to be normal.  That black-and-white ball of fur was always reacting intuitively, and 007 finally wanted some answers to that - he couldn’t believe a dog like that could get so keen just through training, even if the trainer was a genius Technopath.  

As before, however, the 00-agent stopped at the edges of Q’s domain, this time because he appeared to have walked in on the middle of a meeting.  

Q and his minions were all circled around the table of Q’s ‘Biolink’-to-be.  It was still a mass of conglomerate technology, but at least it wasn’t moving now, with Q’s attention elsewhere.  

“It will work,” Q was maintaining with jaded, straining patience, “I’ve made a link like this before, and the advantages far outweigh the troubles of setting it up.”

“But if it doesn’t work, Quartermaster,” a balding fellow argued back, “then we’ve committed exorbitant amounts of tech to a failed project.”  He waved at the mass of mechanics seemingly piled on the large table.  Honestly, it looked like a hopeless mess to Bond, but he was aware that he wasn’t a Technopath.  If this made sense to Q, that was all that mattered.

Q’s underlings didn’t appear to have figured that out yet…

“It won’t be a failed project,” Q continued to reason with the nay-sayers.  “Plus, need I remind you, I was the one supplying you with the bulk of this ‘exorbitant amounts of tech’ to begin with.”

This still didn’t stop the burble of complaints as people tried to dissuade their new Quartermaster, unconsciously moving closer as they tried to get their points across.  Bond leaned against the wall, for all intents and purposes invisible, and listened as minions argued that all of this material would be better used for other purposes, that Q was overstepping his purview by making a machine like this, and that it would never work.  The second reason made James snort, because it had been born not out of logic but out of fear - this Biolink would make Q about as powerful as a Technopath could be.  Bond saw that as a good thing, but apparently everyone else here felt intimidated.  

Bond considered making his presence known and calling everyone out on their cowardly, distrustful motives - just for fun, and because he was getting annoyed at the sight of people shackling down Q’s plans.  He figured that Q liked people hindering his inventing about as much as 007 liked people hindering his shooting.  What stopped him from pushing off the wall and immediately calling out something poignant, however, was a quick motion of Q’s hand that caught his eye.  

The bespectacled man was leaning forward on the table, and while no one was touching him, the situation had done a lot to diminish personal space.  Q looked fine, for the most part - annoyed, but fine.  Bond, however, found his eyes narrowing as they were drawn to Q’s fingers.  Light, long, and almost artistic, they were presently tapping on the table.  So far as 007 knew, Q didn’t have any nervous habits...unless he was nervous.  And everyone was starting to crowd Q enough to make him nervous.

As the arguing continued, he watched as the lines of Q’s back stiffened fractionally more, and he gripped the edge of the table.  The repetitive tapping stopped, but then the index finger of Q’s left hand began shakily tracing out a subtle but clear pattern on the tabletop: full circle clockwise, another one counterclockwise…

Bond shoved off from the wall, striding forward like a soldier wading into battle.  He was all business, and his voice showed it as he unhesitantly bellowed, “Everyone out!”

There was a collective jump from everyone, Q included, although mostly he just turned around tiredly and blinked at the approaching agent.  Bond was giving off an air of command and high temper, but not panic, so for a moment everyone exchanged glances like they would argue.  A few well-placed, ice-cold glare from the agent’s blue eyes stopped that, however.  “Leave the Quartermaster with me, and get out,” he annunciated with clear, rolling menace, all the while getting closer.  Pretty soon, the gathered tech-analysts had the choice to move or be physically run over, and all of them were well aware of Bond’s track-record in physical altercations - including the fact that few people besides 007 himself generally walked away from such altercations.  

No one was fool enough to stay put for long after that, and Bond ignored all questions shot in his direction, so within minutes, Q-branch was deserted and silent except for a dangerously alert 00-agent and a worn-out Technopath.  Q sighed, still with his hands braced on the table but now with more of a dry, resigned expression on his face.  Maybe he also looked slightly amused, although he hid it well.  “Care to explain why you just scared away my entire staff?  I believe they thought you were going to eat them.  So did I, for a moment,” he observed quite calmly.  

Bond was still watching the last closed door with a narrow-eyed look, as if waiting for some fool to return.  Absently, he joked back, “You thought I was going to eat _you_?”

Q just snorted and actually laughed a little, belatedly straightening.  Bond turned back to watch as the change in posture spread to the rest of the Quartermaster: his shoulders eased, the pursed line of his lips relaxed, and he seemed to visibly take a deep breath.  The change was sudden and remarkable.  “No,” he murmured back with an inkling of a smirk, “I know you’d never eat me.”

The phrase actually wasn’t said jokingly, but instead...fondly.  007 cocked his head slightly at the difference.  Q was talking again before he could pursue a line of inquiry.  

“So?  What bring the great 007 down here?  Or, rather, what brings him down here to chase away my employees?”  Q pulled up a chair for himself and sat down, and the signs of his earlier stress showed in that he collapsed a little into it.  One hand twitched on the armrest, and Bond’s keen eyes zeroed in on it.  

“That,” he pointed at Q’s restless fingertips, earning him a bemused look.  Since the Telepath was apparently unaware of the unconscious gesture, Bond settled back against the table and explained, “You’ve got a nervous tic, Q.  You started-”  Bond winced at what he was about to say, mouth twisting before he plunged onwards, “-Doing that pattern I did to distract you back with Silva.”

To his credit, Q didn’t flinch, but suddenly his hands shifted again as if to begin rapping out a pattern or sketching little circles.  Q swore and jerked his hands down to his lap sharply as he finally noticed.  Glaring at the offending appendages with something between bewilderment and annoyance, the Quartermaster observed, “I have developed something of a tell, haven't I?”

“If it helps,” 007 shrugged broad shoulders, “I don’t think anyone else noticed.”

“Well, you’re the only one who knows what to look for,” Q grumbled, turning his hands over in his lap a few more times as if he would somehow be able to see the nervous twitch embodied there.  As the Quartermaster’s hands flipped palm-up, Bond noticed the faint glittering of wires breathing the surface, little points of mechanical connection melded together with his flesh.  

“Better now, Q?” Bond asked in a carefully neutral tone.  When Q arched a brow at him, 007 boldly went on, “You looked a lot like a wire drawn so tight it was about to snap.”

For a moment, it looked like Q would get offended and argue with the other man, but after stiffening sharply for a moment, Q suddenly folded up with a gusty sigh.  Slender arms draping forward over his legs as he bent over his knees, Q stopped acting strong and gave in, “I was already screaming on the inside.  Thank you.  Intervention was much appreciated - most of the time, everyone understands how much I appreciate personal space, but they were getting a bit...close.”

Silence followed for white a bit after that, a surprisingly comfortable stretch of quiet in which Bond and Q just sat and thought their own thoughts.  Although, to be frank, most of Bond’s thoughts were about Q anyway.  “M called me into her office to talk about you,” the agent broke the silence on impulse.

Q’s head lifted, his tone wry as he responded, “Did it have anything to do with my stellar inability to deal with conflict?”

“No,” Bond’s lips quirked, “She actually wanted to lecture me on not breaking out new Quartermaster.  Apparently there was some rule about not touching you that I missed.”

“Oh, that,” Q remembered the incident instantly, faint point of color appearing on his cheekbones, “Sorry.  I...er...never even thought about you when I - that is, the Psych department - decided that a general hands-off policy would be best for me.”  

Q seemed acutely embarrassed by this, but what caught 007’s attention was that Q had seen no reason to include him in the short-range, all-inclusive restraining-order from the very beginning.  “I know I’ve asked…” Bond said slowly, chewing over his words with care as Q sat up straight again to eye him, “But why is it that a 00-agent with a dubious relationship to you - or arguably no relationship at all - is the one person you don’t have a problem with?”

Instead of being flustered or offended, Q pasted on a wry, wrung-out look and pushed himself to his feet.  “How about we continue this talk in my office?  I figure that my new position here requires some level of diplomacy, and things will undoubtedly get quite bloody if my employees decide to call in security to try and remove you.”

Bond shoved off from the table immediately to follow the Quartermaster.  “I’d like to see security try.”

“I would not,” Q countered, but still seemed dryly amused as he walked ahead of Bond towards his office.  

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haphephobic=fear of touch (if anyone was wondering)
> 
> I just loved writing the part about Q's nervous tick being pointed out - I'd been waiting to write this part! Believe me, there are lots of parts I'm eager to write... :3


	14. His Dog and His Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q have a talk...which somehow ends with Bond kidnapping Q's dog and then offering to buy the Quartermaster dinner in exchange. 
> 
> An odd evening, by all accounts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter! Mainly because it includes a lot of Q+Bond time ;) If you've read my Wingfic, you'll know that this is called 'Bonding' time (play on words).

His office was essentially a little box in the center of Q-branch, with large windows that for a moment made Bond uneasy - he naturally preferred something more defensible that made him feel less open.  As Q entered, however, and pressed a palm to the glass, it instantly shifted to a dark, impenetrable grey.  Q cast an idle glance back over his shoulder.  “Just another Technopath trick.  Did I startle, you, 007?”

Bond considered, finally answering as he came the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind himself, “Startle?  No.  Impress?  Yes.”

The surprise Q got out of that statement managed to cover up any alarm he might have felt at being put into an enclosed space with another man.  Bond was careful to put himself in a position where he wouldn’t be blocking the door anyway.  “There, you’re doing it again,” Q lifted an arm to point.  When 007 just sat down and offered Q an obliquely questioning look, the Quartermaster elaborated sensibly, “That’s what makes you an exception to the rule, among other things.  You actually think about what you’re doing - all the time.  Just now, you were making sure that you weren’t blocking my exit, weren’t you?”

In all frankness, Bond was surprised that Q had noticed - few people did, besides other agents or generally dangerous people.  The fact that Q did meant that he was sensitive to more things that 007 had realized.  

Q was still speaking, folding his arms and now leaning a narrow hip against his desk - the two of them had effectively swapped positions from where they’d been earlier, but Q still seemed comfortable and calm.  “Have you also been purposefully approaching where I can see you?”

This time Bond nodded, conceding the point.  “00-agent training - to not only know how to sneak up on people, but we know that stalking people off the job tends to be frowned upon.  You could say that we’ve been trained as much in espionage as we’ve been trained in suppressing all of that training.  If only for M’s peace-of-mind.”

“Hm,” Q nodded and accepted this, chewing at the inside of his lower lip thoughtfully, “That explains a lot then.”

“And other double-o’s?” Bond had to ask, aware of how quickly Q’s eyes jumped back to him, “Do you allow their company, too?”  Unexpectedly, a flash of something that disturbingly resembled jealousy flashed in his mind.

Instead of a relaxed affirmative, Q merely shook his head and hugged himself tighter; the easy crossing of his arms had transformed into a defensive gesture.  He looked away, subconsciously turning his eyes towards the door.  “No,” he shortly said.

Bond relaxed a bit at the knowledge that Q wasn't spending a lot of time close to other 00-agents, but that didn't help him understand anything, really.  “Then why _me_?  Q-!” Bond got exasperated, spreading his arms outward - elbows on the chair-arms, hands palm-up and open, “-I want to understand.  But all I understand is that I’m trained to be intimidating, and naturally…”  He made a face but chose his next word without any particular mercy towards himself.  “...Handsy.”

Q snorted at the look on 007’s face, some of his humor returning at the other man's disgruntled expression.  “I would hardly call putting a hand on my shoulder ‘handsy,’ 007,” Q argued wryly.  

“I did a lot more to you than that.”

That got Q’s face to sober a bit, a shadow dancing across it.  However, he once again showed admirable control over his emotions, as he simply looked down at his hands as he picked at the edge of one fingernail.  Voice low and quiet, he began to explain slowly without regaining eye-contact, “The fact of the matter is…  Whenever other people get near me or touch me, I...I see Silva and his men.  I see their hands reaching for me, their body-heat wafting off around me.”  Bond’s heart gave a ferocious twist even while Q’s face merely twitched, emotions quickly sublimated.  “But when you touch me, I only see you.”  Before Bond could open his mouth to protest, Q stopped picking at his nails and looked up, nailing Bond with those sharp green eyes behind the crystal-clear lenses.  The Telepath went on relentlessly, “I hear a voice in my ear telling me it’s going to be okay, and a hand giving me a pattern to focus on.  You.”

Bond was, for lack of a better descriptor, floored.  For all of the charm he’d been trained to use and the unflappable nature he’d learned to maintain, he didn’t know what to say to Q, who was looking at him as if imploring him to understand.  Finally, after swallowing once thickly, Bond got his voice working with a low grate of sound, “Where do we go from here?”

That was not quite the reaction Q had been expecting, as evidenced by the way he pulled back a bit, blinking in almost comical surprise behind his spectacles.  “Go from…?  Oh.  Well...er…  Does there need to be any going on from here?  I was under the impression that you merely needed to get this parsed out.”  He waved a hand vaguely in between them.  

Bond just tipped his head, chewing at the inside of his cheek as thoughts moved quietly behind his eyes.  Actually, he’d come into Q-branch to ask Q about his dog, but they’d detoured from that conversation long ago - they were on new ground entirely now.  New ground indeed…

‘ _You’re making this more than it is, James_ ,’ 007 mentally warned himself, wondering why all of his self-warnings seemed to be necessary only when Q was around.  Outwardly, he affected a look of relaxed acceptance, shrugging muscular shoulders.  “Of course you’re right, Quartermaster.”  He stood, smiling a faint but easy smile.  “What was I thinking?”

Q just eyed him from the table, now clearly suspicious.  “You’re talking in a tone that says you’re actually ignoring me.  I’ve heard it often enough, usually before you blow something up.”

“I’m not going to blow anything up, Q - on my word as a 00-agent.”

“That’s like a pyromaniac swearing on fire.”

“We all make promises on what we find most dear,” 007 point out logically, smoothly slipping past Q and towards the door - again being respectful of personal space.  He pushed open the door to note that a few of Q’s minions were beginning to poke their noses back into Q-branch, and he made sure to shoot them his stoniest glare.  Remembering something, Bond paused and looked back over his shoulder at the wary Technopath still eyeing him.  “And Q?”

“Yes?”

“The next time I come into Q-branch for a chat, you’re going to tell me why your dog is so bloody smart.”

“That,” Q took in a deep threat, then let it out as a frazzled sigh, “is a long story.  Besides, what reason could you have for wandering into my department for another chat?”

Bond had no idea, but he was pretty sure he’d wander in anyway.  Little things just kept drawing him back to Q, and he had no idea where those little things would end.  So instead of answering, he blithely pretended he didn’t hear and slipped out, deciding that a stiff drink or a long stint at the firing range might be in order - one would fog his head and the other would clear it, and he wasn’t entirely sure which he wanted right now.  

No.  He knew what he wanted.  He wanted to know why he found Q fascinating even when there were so many reasons for him to just leave the Quartermaster alone.  

~^~

It was different, living in London now that the Augments had it more-or-less under siege.  He wondered what the world thought of them, but figured they were all just glad that Silva hadn't looked beyond their borders.  

Bond’s apartment was reasonably well-protected by locks and alarms, but really, it was no safer than anywhere else in the city - less safe if Silva were to find out who typically lived in it.  Still, sometimes Bond wandered back there, if only because sleeping on his own bed was much preferred to sleeping on the cot that MI6 had given him when it set up temporary quarters for the majority of its employees.  A huge sections of the very same tunnels Q was mapping with the help of his dog had already been transformed into a sort of live-in bunker, Q himself having gotten one of the newest quarters with its cheap bed and minimalist decor.  

The difference with the trip to his apartment, this time, was that Kaleb decided to go with him.  Bond had been just ducking past security (‘ducking past’ meaning ‘entirely avoiding’) when the click of little claws on hard floor got him to turn around with tensed muscles.  He relaxed but lifted a brow in bemusement as he caught sight of the black-and-white dog instead of an enemy.  

“I thought you were in the tunnels,” he mused aloud, even though he expected no answer.  Kaleb’s tongue lolled and he stretched, easing his forepaws down and forward while his rump and tail remained in the air.  He showed off sharp teeth in a long-jawed yawn.  Bond smirked even as he continue walking towards his car.  “You’re just as annoying as your owner, you know that?”  ‘Annoying’ wasn’t really the word he was thinking - ‘intriguing’ came closer.  There were, in fact, quite a few words circling around his head in regards to their newly-acquired Quartermaster, like birds testing out a roost to see which fit best upon the perch of Bond’s thoughts.  ‘ _Where do we go from here_?’  The words had just fallen out of his mouth as naturally as a breath, and now they were joining the flock in James’s head.  

The black-and-white dog slipped out of its stretch and continued to trot along behind him, and Bond resigned himself with surprising ease to the idea of Kaleb following him home.    

It almost didn’t come as a surprise when Bond’s phone buzzed, although perhaps it was surprising when it turned itself on without him actually pushing the ‘Talk’ button.  Q’s voice came dryly though the device almost before 007 had it up to his ear: “007, you wouldn’t happen to be kidnapping my dog now, would you?”

007 chuckled back goodnaturedly, the sound low and comfortable in his chest even as he leaned back casually against his car and turned his eyes to the security camera he knew to be there.  “I’ll answer that if you tell me whether or not you’re stalking me on your security cameras.”

“Actually,” Q huffed, “it’s Kaleb doing the stalking.  The camera on his collar is obviously no longer picking up images from the tunnels, and I’d swat his furry behind for that if he weren’t with you instead of where I could reach him.”

“You hear that, Kaleb?” Bond spoke, knowing full-well that Q could still hear him, and could see the smile coming through with 007's teasing tone, “You’re a lucky dog.  How does Chinese take-out at my place sound?”

“Bond,” Q tried to continue to chastise with almost saint-like patience.  Bond could imagine the Technopath shaking his head of dark curls.  “You can’t just go and get takeout.  Or have you forgotten that Silva knows your face and could be anywhere in the city?”

“Don’t you trust my skills, Quartermaster?  I’ve tracked men across whole countries, and you don’t think I could find a nice Chinese place where enemies don’t lurk?”

“It’s the lack of enemies that usually trips you up.  Or am I forgetting some time when your tracking of men across whole countries didn’t end in a gunfight?” Q shot him down with the dry skill of a jaded sniper.

Bond made a disgruntled almost-whine that would have sounded much more natural coming from the Canaan dog sitting now beside his feet.  Frowning, Bond defended weakly, “Some ended differently.”

“No.  All explosions.  I checked.”

“Liar,” 007 grunted, “You’re bluffing.”

“Not bluffing.  I’m a Technopath, or have you forgotten?  I can find files and assimilate them faster than most people can imagine,” Q wry voice confided, unflustered and also not bothered by such little things as modesty.  For all Bond knew, Q might have been taking a computer apart at the same time, too, his attention easily fragmenting to talk on the phone at the same time.  “Now, I answered your question, so you answer mine, like a good agent.”

Bond was smiling again.  This was unexpectedly fun.  “I’m not a good agent.”

The startled burble of laughter that ricocheted down the line lit a fire of pleasure low in 007’s stomach, knowing that he’d tricked the sound out of his normally controlled Quartermaster.  “Yes, you’re quite the cad,” Q tried to patronize him to hide his own amusement, while Bond relaxed more fully against the side of his car, “Now kindly tell Kaleb that he can’t go out to eat with you, I need him far too much mapping the tunnels.  Besides, nearly everyone in Q-branch has been feeding him, and he’s going to get fat.”

Perhaps Kaleb was listening in, because suddenly his ears flattened out in offense and he growled.  

But Bond wasn’t paying attention, still holding the phone to his ear and smiling the small, tight smile he had, the one that curled at the corner of his mouth and lightened the shade of his eyes.  Usually it promised gleeful trouble - now it promised something else.  “How about you go out to eat with me instead?” he asked in a softer voice than before, and the words fell out as easily as a breath, just as his words from earlier had.  ‘ _What are you doing, Bond_ …?’ that little voice of caution asked in his head.  

Now Q’s surprise was palpable, and he let out a little choked sound of flustered shock.  “W-what?!  No!” he yelped, calming enough to speak reasonably next, “Bond, I can’t leave MI6. M’s orders.”

Bond actually knew that, but part of him had been hoping that Q would throw those orders to the wind, just this once.  The agent couldn’t quite keep the sour look that twisted his mouth down, although he was only displeased for a moment.  “But you have to eat, don’t you?  Even mad geniuses eat.”  

“Yes, but this one eats inside MI6,” Q patiently pointed out, apparently resigning himself to 007’s stubborn nature, “M and I are in perfect agreement that having me wander around outside is a poor idea when I’m such an asset to MI6 and such a target for unfriendly Augments.”

Instead of feeling disappointed at the continued refusal, Bond’s trained ears picked up one thing amidst all of that that made his lips twitch into a sly grin again: deeply buried but not buried deeply enough for Bond’s ears not to hear it, Q sounded faintly wistful.  It didn’t matter that the Quartermaster was warily hiding away that reaction, because 007 was far too good at reading tones to be so easily fooled.  Besides, any sane person would be craving outside cuisine after a few days of eating the food on hand at MI6 Headquarters.  So he continued talking cheerily as he turned abruptly to open the car-door, “I’ll pick something up for you then.”

“You’ll-?”  Q’s brain caught up with his ears a second late, as often seemed to happen when Bond outmaneuvered him.  Sometimes, Q was so used to being the smartest person in the room that he forgot he could be outwitted.  “No, Bond, I didn’t tell you to-!”

“Come on, Kaleb,” Bond let Q hear him call to the dog, “If I bring you right back, Q won’t be that mad.”

“Like hell he won’t...” was Q’s lethal little growl in immediate response, but Bond was already sliding behind the wheel as Kaleb yipped and perched on the passenger’s seat with tail-wagging eagerness.  

“Any requests?” Bond asked, still having far too much fun and wondering why that was.  He hadn't smiled like this in ages.  All he was doing was teasing a slender Technopath with more problems than fingers to count them on and a brain-capacity that could put 007 in the dirt.  

Finally, Q just gave up on controlling a force of nature like James Bond.  In fact, Bond could almost hear Q taking off his glasses so he could drag his hand down his face.  “No requests, just don’t break anything, and don’t let Kaleb lick all of my food.”

“I’ll see what I can do about the second one,” Bond cheekily replied, then ended the call.  

~^~

Nothing was broken, and Bond kept out of trouble - if only because he had a passenger who was less bullet-proof than he was, and special to Q.  Kaleb loved 007’s fast driving, and stood with his hind-paws on the seat and his front on the dash, tongue lolling as he grinned and watched the rode fly to meet them.  Bond truly knew this city, and Silva would have to get a lot sneakier and more cunning before he could catch 007 like this.  

With so many people afraid to come out of their homes (especially after dark) with Silva’s lot around, restaurants had suffered, but Bond knew the stubborn establishments that continued to make a living tucked away from the fear and violence.  He was a regular customer at most of them, as were the other 00-agents and anyone else who was fearless enough not to care about the threat of attack.  No one even blinked when he came in and ordered for two, a dog at his heels with an odd collar still about its throat.  Bond flashed his most charming smile, a smooth spring in his step as he left.  

It was late in the evening, late enough that the Quartermaster should have already eaten, but Bond knew from gossip that regular meal-times were something of a blind-spot for Q - either he forgot to eat or was too busy working.  Either way, even though Q-branch was mostly deserted by the time Bond and Kaleb walked into Q-branch, Bond knew that Q was still running on empty like the little machine he was.  

Just as Bond was about to open his mouth and call for Q, Kaleb grabbed at his pantleg - a gentle bite, more of a slight tug with intelligent eyes looking up at the agent with his edible cargo.  Bond raised one eyebrow.  Kaleb wagged his tail in response, then let go of 007 to trot into the semi-darkened Q-branch - presumably in search of his master.  Amused at the idea of using stealth (keeping in mind how poorly that could go if he wasn’t careful), Bond held back on yelling and began following Kaleb on practiced, silent feet.  

It wasn’t long before they found Q in one of the portions of Q-branch with the lights still up.  He was again working with his ‘Biolink’, as he’d named it, and the mass of conglomerate machinery still made no sense to Bond.  Q was clearly very invested in it, at the moment, causing wires to move without touching them.  No less than three of those wires had been pulled around to connect to the back of Q’s neck, plugged in like he was the ultimate outlet, and the sight still made Bond shiver.  As it was, Q was deaf to the outside world, having not look up even though Kaleb was now sitting just under the table in front of him with tongue lolling.  Q mumbled something to himself about ‘lagging’ and ‘fused circuitry’ and Bond decided to wait a bit longer before interrupting him.  Meeting Kaleb’s dark eyes, 007 tipped his head towards Q’s office.  Immediately, the dog was on his feet, weaving easily past Q to follow the eerily silent agent.  

Ten minutes later, the food was in Q’s office and Bond was back out in Q’s workspace, lounging in a chair where he could watch, legs stretched out in front of him.  It was amazing, but Q still didn’t seem to have noticed his dog or his 00-agent in attendance, even though Kaleb was now snoozing under the table and Bond was close enough to trip over.  

Q’s eyes glowed as if reflecting the blue-screen of a computer, the light flashing off his glasses periodically as he turned his head.  Likewise, electric lights sparked in lines down his arms as he moved, revealed now that his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.  “Come on, you junk-heap,” Q growled viciously on one memorable occasion, pressing fingers against a plate of metal: immediately, a connection was created between the pads of his fingertips and the metal itself, a glow radiating from where they touched.  Something within the mass of metal ground and whirred like gears shifting or a car protesting, but it was about then that Q changed position and circled the table to run right into 007’s legs.  

Bond had a millisecond to consider the consequences of various courses of action: let Q fall and deal with a concussed Quartermaster, or catch him and deal with the possible fall-out of a flash-back.  Q had pointed out that he could handle 007’s idle touches, but part of that was due to the fact that he saw them coming - now, they’d be testing to see how Q took surprises.  Bond defaulted to the second option just because it went against his every fiber to just let Q hurt himself when he was the reason.  As Q yelped and lost his balance, long legs tangling, Bond barked, “Q!” more as a warning of his presence than anything else while he reached out to catch the other man.  

The two of them both almost ended up on the floor, but instead Q ended up sprawled half-on half-off Bond’s lap with their legs virtually in a knot, still on the chair.  “Sshhhit!  When did you get here!?” the Quartermaster hissed, twisting his head to stare at Bond with wide eyes through crooked glasses.  The movement was so sharp he could have pulled a muscle in his neck, and his face so close to Bond’s that the latter had to pull his head back to avoid clipping his chin on Q’s forehead.  Q belatedly shuddered then and looked to the large hands wrapped around his biceps, something haunted and uncontrolled lighting his eyes as if his mind were transforming the appendages into snakes.  Immediately, 007 released his grip, lifting his hands away and holding them palm-up.

“Recently enough that the food might still be warm.  Heavy on the might,” he answered carefully, watching every minute twitch Q made now.  Standing now under the table, Kaleb was doing the same, head cocked.  So far, at least Q wasn’t screaming...

For a moment, Q just looked lost - rather unsettlingly so.  Then, almost at the same time, Q reached to the back of his neck and Bond noticed that one of the wires had been tugged free in the fall.  Q groaned, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment while his body froze, his other hand now braced on the chair up against Bond’s right shoulder.  Bond could feel the quiver that went down his arm.  “Just a moment, 007.  I didn’t realize that I was...missing a wire.  Think of it as watching a documentary show and only realizing belatedly that it’s actually complete fiction - I’m processing input that I’m not actually receiving right now, and it’s making me...clumsy.”

“I think my legs are the real culprit for your clumsiness,” Bond pointed out, but settled down where he was.  

“Yes, well, the difference between perceived and actual input is definitely to blame for the fact that I’m a little distracted right now.”  Distracted was okay, in Bond’s opinion - if Q weren’t, would he be taking this so well?  Probably not.  

It was not entirely comfortable, having Q tensely sitting on him - all bones and angles - but the 00-agent couldn’t deny the little thrill that curled deliciously up his spine at their close proximity.  Q’s left hand was rubbing at the back of his own neck where the wire had been, and he’d apparently blocked out his compromising position in favor of convincing his brain that the wire was gone.  

“And this is why you don’t remove flash-drives without correctly ejecting them,” Q quipped before opening his eyes again with a wry smile.  

Then he realized that he was sprawled on a large, muscular, calm 00-agent.  “Shit,” he swore again, pushing back and this time managing to get to his feet.  When he swayed and nearly overbalanced again, Bond lifted a hand, and Q took it automatically and with far less embarrassment - falling on Bond was bad, but reflexively snatching at his wrist was normal enough, and he didn’t flinch away from the grounding sensation of strong, calloused fingers locking momentarily around his hand.  “How can you be so bloody big and still get underfoot?!” Q breathed out in exasperation as he tried to regain some semblance of aplomb.  

A broad smile fleshed itself out across 007’s face, matching the impish gleam in his pale eyes.  “Well, it worked to get your attention, didn’t it?  I didn’t want to sneak up on you and startle you while you were so focused.”

“And yet you’ve done both,” Q quipped, smoothing down his shirt and looking around to find Kaleb, “You weren’t helpful at all either.  You could have at least barked.”

Obediently, then, Kaleb barked, a teasing little yip.  

“How about I make it up to you with supper?” Bond suggested, regaining Q’s attention before he could berate the dog.  

“Supper…?”  Maybe Q was still reeling a bit from his fall and the missing wire, because he just stared at 007 and blinked for a moment.  Then his eyes widened with a snap as he recalled.  “Supper!  Oh - you didn’t really go get food, did you?”

“Of course I got food,” Bond reprimanded, standing.  He dubiously eyed the remaining wires still plugged into Q’s neck, making him look like a skinny sort of puppet on cable-sized strings.  If he could get away with it without frying Q’s brain, he’d pull them out.  

Q noticed the look and smirked playfully, following Bond’s eyes and reaching back to touch one of the wires.  “It doesn’t hurt, you know.”  When Bond continued scowling at the wires, Q eventually couldn’t help but chuckling, “You’ve got a very twisted sort of protective streak if you think to save me from my own powers, 007.  To be entirely truthful, I’m more comfortable when I am connected to a machine - fewer people can touch me that way.”

The faint, defensive tone that slipped inadvertently into those last words goaded Bond to stop looking at the wires and return his firm gaze to Q’s eyes, which were slightly tense behind his glasses as he continued to try and hold his smile.  Bond knew what Q was thinking about, however: he was thinking about the last time he’d been helpless.  Power always felt awfully good after something like that, especially the kind of power that Q could have at his fingertips if he could just surround himself with enough gadgets, circuitry, and wires.  Those wires at his neck were his sword and shield, his iron vault to keep the world away.

“Q,” he said, voice uncharacteristically soft and yet somehow still vibrating with strength, a low rumble of suppressed volume, “Even if you didn’t have Augment powers at all, no one would touch you."  Q opened his mouth to ask how that worked, and Bond talked right over him in that same immovable voice, "Because I wouldn’t let them.”

Q’s smile slipped, surprise rendering his wit useless for a moment, along with his false mask of joviality.  It was a more tormented expression that hovered on the edge of his face instead, as he searched 007’s face.  “You really mean that, don’t you?” he said with soft wonder.

Although he wasn’t entirely sure why, 007 nodded.  

Then, he looked down, speering Kaleb with a look.  The dog (who’d been doing his best to eavesdrop inconspicuously, it looked like) pricked up its ears and stared back at the stern-faced blond man.  “If you tell me about your dog,” Bond stipulated as he crossed his arms, making it clear that he wouldn’t be put off.

Unexpectedly, Q just sighed, looking dubiously between agent and canine.  “I hope that food you picked up microwaves well, because I believe this is going to be a long chat.  Go on ahead to my office, I’ve got to clean up here.  Then…”  Another sigh, the release of breath more uneasy, and Q didn’t seem to know where to look until Kaleb came up and put a paw on his trouser-leg in a show of companionship.  “Then I’ll tell you about Kaleb Dawson,” Q finished numbly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies is it was confusing when Q got that wire pulled - I needed a reason why he didn't flip out completely when he fell on Bond! Plus, Bond's wariness of Q's wiring is a reoccurring theme, so I couldn't resist ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Also, if anyone wants to see (and comment) on upcoming stories I have planned for this summer, you can check our my Google Drive document!  
> Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/10MTLsoV0hKOS6EhS54IknjolsB7Vb0PXiLzT5TfLJ0I/edit


	15. Kaleb Dawson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the story of Q's dog. Of course, the conversation moves on from there...
> 
> Or the chapter which details the delicate matter of dating a damaged Technopath.

In reality, the next fifteen or so minutes was spent with Bond re-heating their cooled supper, while Q sat down in a chair with Kaleb at his feet.  They were far enough away that Bond couldn’t hear what Q said to the dog, although he heard a few yipped barks in return.  It was all very puzzling.  Up until now, Bond had speculated that Q’s dog was not entirely normal, like an itch just beneath his skin that he couldn’t scratch, and now that little itch had turned into a full-blown alarm in his head as he waited patiently for the microwave timer to count down.  Bond wasn’t sure what to expect from the upcoming talk.

Then again, he hadn’t known what to expect from an impromptu supper with the Quartermaster either.  Part of him was fully aware that this was a date (a surprise, underhanded date that Q was probably unaware of), but that part 007 was staunchly ignoring in favor of turning this canine puzzle over and over in his head.  

Eventually, Q walked up to him.  Bond had heard him coming but hadn’t given any sign that he had, instead watching the food turn in the little machine before him.  Q hesitated just behind him, and in an unexpected change of roles, was very careful to announce his presence with a light clearing of his throat and a touch to Bond’s sleeve.  When the larger man turned, the hand retreated swiftly.  Even if Q were not aware of his own reactions to being surprised, he knew that 00-agents were not folk to be startled with impunity.  

“Kaleb?” Bond asked succintly, glancing around and seeing no sign of the dog now.  

“Off in the tunnels again,” Q shrugged.  He’d relaxed.  Perhaps the decision to talk to Bond had sunk in, leaving a sort of illogical relief in its wake; Bond knew the feeling often enough from missions, when he’d come to accept the necessity of a hard decision.  Still, regardless of the reasons behind it, it was nice to see the Quartermaster calm for once as the two of them filled up the empty expanse of Q-branch like a pair of passing ghosts.  “He’s still got that camera on, and may as well be useful.  If he stayed put, he’d not only listen in, but beg for food horribly.  Plus, I told him that if he tries to lick your hand or sit in your lap, I would whop him one.”

The odd words, said in such a simple and sensible tone, made Bond’s brow beetle before he just gave up on understanding and turned to open the microwave door before it started beeping.  Hopefully, everything would make sense shortly.  “Eat or talk first?”  00-agents were chosen for their pragmatism.

“You eat, I’ll talk.  I don’t think I can stomach anything until I get this all out,” Q decided, reaching forward to take the tray of carry-out before realizing that 007 intended to carry it.  Q gave up without a fight, instead walking just ahead of him to his office to hold the door.  Bond made no comment besides a hum of acceptance, traveling smoothly into the room and noting the sound of Q closing the locking the door behind them both.  

“You’ll take the chair farthest from the door then?” Q asked, his voice warring between tired and wry as he once again took note of 007’s reflexive habits, “So that I don’t feel trapped in my own office?”

Bond was already sitting, back to the far wall of the small room.  He flashed a charming smile, replying smoothly, “I just like having my back to the wall.”  He ignored the fact that this had happened before, and that Q had caught him then, too.  

“Hm,” Q noted, sucking in his lower lip briefly and narrowing his eyes at his guest.  He noted dryly, “Using a truth to avoid the real answer.  You’re getting smarter.”

“I have to keep up with you.”

Q snorted out a chuckle, but gave in and folded himself up in his own seat.  His desk was serving as a table, their positions oddly reversed as Bond took his chair and Q took one of the guest-chairs set up in front of the desk.  “Well, I don’t know just how hard keeping up with me in intelligence will be, if this most recent turn is any indication.”  He sat back and then explained, “It’s really not logical or smart for me to be telling you about Kaleb at all.”

Knowing thin ice when he was stepping on it, Bond looked across the desk at Q with blue-eyed sincerity, saying without the playful tone now, “You know, Q, you don’t have to tell me-”

“No. No, it’s all right,” Q interrupted with a sigh, temporarily slipping his glasses off his face and into one hand to rub at his eyes with the other.  “It’s hard enough keeping secrets from normal people - I’d rather know that I’m not trying to hide anything from the bloody world-class spy.  Now, as soon as you start eating, I’ll start talking.  Don’t worry, it shouldn’t be anything that will turn your stomach.  For the most part, at least.”  Bond was more disturbed by the faraway, pained look that entered Q’s eyes than he was by the possibility of losing his appetite.  More curious than he was willing to let on, the larger man nodded and then opened up one of the containers of fried rice, dishing a healthy portion onto a paper plate he’d snagged from the communal break-room.  A classy dinner was out of the question when one had to make due with the fare of MI6.  

Q leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap in a relaxed version of primness, eyes fixed for a few moments on the unexpectedly deft movements of Bond’s large hands on the provided chopsticks.  “I never learned how to use those, you know,” he reflected distractedly, still watching as hands built for strangling enemies skillfully picked up grains of rice.  

“Is that how your story starts?”

Another snort from the Quartermaster, still slightly distracted by whatever thoughts were crowding behind his eyes.  “I would have thought men in your profession would be more serious and less cheeky.”

The continued distraction didn’t bother Bond, who could read in Q’s posture that he was resigned to this talk already, and wouldn’t run away from the real topic.  Therefore, he continued to play along congenially between mouthfuls, “Some of us are serious.”

“Oh?  And what happened to them?” Q retorted with a twitch of a smirk.

“Went crazy, I imagine.  We’re serious enough on missions to make up for a lifetime, so if we don’t decompress, we don’t stay sane for long,” Bond shrugged, completely serious.  It was an old theory known to any 00-agent who held the title for more than a year.  

“I hear that your decompression usually includes copious amounts of alcohol and women,” observed Q obliquely, finally ceasing to stare at Bond’s chopsticks and moving up to his eyes.  “But that’s more off-topic than I want to get.  Where was I?”

“At the beginning, I believe.  Unless you want to hear about my more famous ‘decompressions’?” the insufferable agent offered with a sly smile.  He nearly burst out laughing at the sudden look of horror on Q’s face, the Quartermaster actually jumping at the suggestion combined with the glint that had ignited in 007’s pale eyes.  

Q hurried to talk now, forcefully steering to the topic he’d come here with the intention of hashing out, “You’re entirely right in thinking that Kaleb is not an ordinary dog.  What you got wrong is that he’s not an ordinary person.  He’s an Augment, like us.  Like Silva’s men.”  He plowed onwards, watching the table as Bond stiffened and set his chopsticks down silently, “He’s a Morph.  I’ve known him since I was six, although for most of that time, he didn’t have a semi-permanent fur coat and was bipedal.  Things have...changed a bit.”

Honestly, Bond was floored.  He’d expected that Q’s canine companion was abnormal, but hadn’t made the leap to expecting another Augment in the heart of MI6.  M would be lethal with fury at having this information kept from her, which explained why Q was shrinking in on himself now, leaning forward over his side of the desk with his arms folded, eyes on his own bony wrists as they peaked out of his sleeves.  “He’s been my best friend for ages.  We even dated at one point, if you’d believe it, although it didn’t work out.  Different likes and dislikes.”  Q waved that away, not embarrassed to admit his romantic history in passing.  He grew more uncomfortable and hunched his shoulders, however, as the story grew more serious.  “He used to be human most of the time, but when this bloody revolution of Silva’s started, a group of other Augments got hold of him on the streets.  I didn’t even know to go looking for him until the next morning when he hadn’t come to the flat we shared, and then it took a bit of eavesdropping on security cameras to figure out that he’d been attacked.  They…”  Q stuttered to a stop, eyes closing tightly and hands fisting one over the other - but he still continued, “They tortured him.  There was no reason for it - he didn’t know anything they could want.  I wasn’t on the radar yet, and Kaleb was a fairly unassuming fellow who didn’t go looking for trouble, even as a dog.  So far as I can tell, Silva’s men took him for fun, and by the time I found him, he was a mess of blood and bruises.”  

Bond’s eyes were waiting for Q’s when they lifted, tormented green on steady, startled blue.  Q’s voice had grown a little hoarse, “He managed to transform and get away before they did worse to him, and held onto that form because he knew I couldn’t carry him in his human form if his legs gave out.  He hasn’t transformed back since.  So...”  He released a breath, pushing a somewhat shaky hand back through his mass of dark hair.  “...Now you know.  My dog is not actually a dog, and when I see you sleeping with him, I see a lanky fellow with mouse-brown hair sprawled across a blue-eyed 00-agent.”

“Kaleb still has a human mind?” Bond had to ask, the question springing out of him as his brain sort of bypassed the bit about sleeping with Q’s ex.  There was only so much his brain could handle right now.  

“Completely.  He can even type on my computer, if he gets his teeth wrapped about a pencil to tap on the keys with,” Q supplied, “He won’t explain to me why he won’t...or can’t...change back, though, and I know that the beating hurt him on a level that goes beyond physical.”

“The psyche takes a long time to heal,” Bond murmured, comfort wrapped subtly in the low, solemn tones of his voice.  He also had to ask, tone growing more careful, “Was he…?”

“Hurt like I was?” Q ruthlessly finished the question, a brittle, twisted smile quirking up one side of his mouth.  “No, nothing so...intimate.  But he came a lot closer to death than I did, and the person who came to save him...wasn’t quite so fast as a certain 00-agent, to whom I still owe thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Q.  You also don’t need to feel like you let...Kaleb down.”

Instead of addressing the offered redemption, said so simply in 007’s frank voice - 007, who knew a lot about blame and guilt and letting people down - Q very obviously switched subjects, the smile on his face still not quite believable as he joshed, “You were going to say ‘your dog’ instead of Kaleb, weren’t you?”   

If Q didn’t want to talk more about it, it wasn’t Bond’s place to push  - Q had told him more than enough for one day already, and forgiving oneself wasn’t a swift or easy task.  He, too, grabbed onto the new subject, grimacing and throwing up his hands as he defended himself, “It’s a lot to take in!  You can’t expect me to just switch titles so quickly from a fuckin’ dog to a bloody person!”

“Language, 007,” Q chastised drolly, propping his chin on the palm of one hand.  Bond gave him a childish little glare not befitting his station.  After that, he simply watched as Q turned to the task of eating.  

And for all that that should have been boring, it wasn’t.  

“Are you staring at my eating, Bond?”

“Absolutely not.”

Q looked up from his plate, still leaned over it as if contemplating lifting the noodles to his mouth.  He had one brow questioningly raised, eyes taking in Bond’s face over his glasses.  “It’s stunning, really, how truthful you can sound when you’re obviously lying.”

Bond preened a bit instead of being offended; sometimes, being called a liar wasn’t a bad thing.  A roguish smile spread across his face and lit pale blue eyes.  “Are you complimenting me, Quartermaster?”

“I make it a point never to contemplate cocky personality types on a first date,” Q retorted dryly, then seemed to realize what he’d said and nearly dropped his chopsticks.  His eyes had stared at nothing for a moment in consternated shock, but now fastened again on Bond’s face with an almost comical look of mortification.  “I meant…!  I didn’t mean…  That is, to say…”

Bond cut him off simply by laughing, a sound that caught him by surprise and then just built as momentum grew.  He ended up tilting his head back and just about roaring, because seeing Q so innocently flustered...was hilarious.  And cute.  And a million other things that he wasn’t sure Q wanted to hear - not because they were bad, but because they were incredibly complementary.  Finally, as he calmed down, sitting up straight again and biting his lip against more chuckles, Bond accepted the fact that he was far more interested in Q than he had any right to be.  

Of course, Q was looking more than a bit put-out, a slightly gimlet look being leveled at the 00-agent and his laughter now.  Q was more embarrassed than angry, though, as evidenced by the lack of verbal snark and instead the presence of a slight mantling of his pale cheeks.  

“I’m sorry, Q,” Bond covered up the last bits of his laughter, “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“No, no,” Q waved him off with blunt sarcasm, “I’m sure you were.  I’m hilarious.”  His tone indicated he thought the opposite, and now he was looking away, too ashamed of his loose tongue to look 007 in the eye anymore.  007 decided to take pity on him.  

“Finish your noodles, Q.  This lunch was for you, anyway, because for a genius, you forget simple things like meals an awful lot.”  The fact that he knew that drove home the fact that he’d been borderline stalking Q for sometime now...he hadn’t even realized it, and would have to curtail that habit before it became a problem…  Bond pushed Q’s plate closer to him, then reached further, fingers catching around the chopsticks still protruding unnoticed from Q’s hand; 007’s calloused fingertips brushed against the wood as if playing with them, getting Q’s eyes to snap up to him.  Bond’s answering look was softer than before, and somehow warmer.  “Do you plan on missing supper tomorrow, too?” he asked idly.  

Q couldn’t seemed to decide whether he was supposed to pull his chopsticks away from Bond, relinquish them to Bond, or fall back on some mysterious third option that he wasn’t sure about the details of.  Something niggled at the back of his mind, telling him there was a third option, if he were daring enough.  

Bond didn’t want to push the Technopath, though, and without ever actually touching Q’s hand, withdrew his own to his side of the table.  “I’ll take your lack of response for a yes, on the basis of previous evidence.  Same time tomorrow then?”  He stood up and began politely cleaning up his own plates and empty containers.

“I beg your pardon?” Q blurted, blinking like a scrawny owl.  His head similarly swiveled to stare at Bond as the man circled his desk, hands laden with carry-out containers and paper plates that were undoubtedly very low-brow for a man whose missions took him to such exotic, expensive location.  

“Thai food next time?” Bond ignored the question to ask.  

Q actually didn’t managed to pull himself together in time to say anything, and therefore, by default, agreed to meet up with Bond tomorrow evening to eat Thai food.  Feeling as if he’d just been hit by a surprise tidal wave, Q sat rather tensely on the edge of his chair and stared after 007’s broad back as the man slipped away like a figment of an overactive imagination.  

Had Bond just taken his verbal slip as an invitation?!  

~^~

Technically, Bond still wasn’t dating the Quartermaster.  Technically.  The words were never brought up again, and 007 carefully kept the next supper - and the one after that, and after that - very low-key and lacking in pressure of any kind.  Part of his job as an agent included learning when to push a person and when not to, and all of the signs were pointing to the latter with Q, so Bond was careful and patient instead.  Maybe he put a bit more effort into each consecutive meal, under the pretence of bringing the outside world to Q since Q couldn’t be brought into the outside world, but he made a point to never make Q feel obligated to reciprocate in any way.  Clearly Q was waiting for Bond to push, as evidenced by the sometimes-nervous looks he favored the other man with, but nothing ever happened, and Q was left with slowly lowering walls as his defenses grudgingly lowered.  

Finally, Q said it, as they ate food that Bond had cooked himself and brought it to Q’s small personal quarters after Q-branch had cleared of everyone but Q himself and Kaleb.  The not-dog was actually with them, eating underneath the desk, acting no differently than he had before Bond knew his secret.  “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Bond choked on his drink, a somewhat inelegant move for a man usually so smooth.  Kaleb’s head lifted from his bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, ears pricked and eyes mirroring 007’s surprise.  “That was rather sudden, Q,” he pointed out ruefully, pressing the back of one hand to his mouth as he felt the burn of alcohol up the back of his nose, his other hand lowering the glass.  He cleared his throat once.  “Most people call it dating nowadays, unless I’m out of touch.”

“So you are seducing me,” Q blinked, more stunned than Bond now.  It was a day for shocks, apparently, although Bond was recovering more quickly, and already Kaleb was flashing a doggy grin as he licked bits of sauce off his pale muzzle.  

Q looked as though he honestly hadn’t expected a positive reply, and was now fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt nervously, looking down.  “Bond…” he started in a distressed tone.

“Q,” the other man cut him off, and didn’t go on until the Quartermaster was looking at him.  Those green eyes had become more and more gorgeous to him as the days had gone by, although they were painfully conflicted now.  “I’m not seducing you,” he ultimately picked his next words to be, “Seducing is something that I don’t do outside of missions.”  Which didn’t mean he wasn’t good at it; in fact, the fact that he was very good at seduction was the reason he turned that part of himself off when he was off duty.  

“Then what are you-?” Q began to demand in a defensive tone,  but was cut off by a whine at his pant-leg.  Kaleb had walked up and was favoring him with a chastising look, muzzle wrinkled slightly and one paw lifted up one Q’s chair.  The Quartermaster deflated, looking back at Bond but once again preferring the tabletop to Bond’s piercing eyes.  Long-fingered, dexterous hands rested, one on Q’s lap, the other next to neglected silverware, and Bond watched them since he couldn’t watch Q’s eyes - so far, Q’s nervous tic had yet to make a reappearance, and that was gave 007 hope that this would work.  “It’s just that…” Q finally got out, worrying his lip and then sighing, “Bond-”

“James,” the other corrected, as calmly as could be.  Kaleb flicked an ear, looking approving, although the dog’s eyes flicked up worriedly to his friend.  

“I couldn’t be what you want from a partner, Bond,” Q still didn’t use his first name, words barren beneath a soft-as-ash tone.  Bond could just see sad eyes through Q’s lashes, glasses sliding down Q’s nose until the smaller man corrected them with a push of one finger.

Finally Bond got offended a bit.  His posture tensed fractionally, and he let a frown harden the lines of his face.  “And precisely what do you think I want from you, Quartermaster?”

Now they were both using titles, but Q just looked up without surprise to the scowling face across from him, chest lifting in a small sigh.  “Believe it or not, I’m not implying anything - I just want to warn you that I don’t think I have anything to give at all.”

Bond heaved a breath as well, finally seeing where this was going.   There were plenty of people in his past who had accused him of wanting nothing more than a quick tumble in bed, and many times those people had been right.  That was not the case with Q, however, and that also meant Bond was less inclined to simply give up and find someone else to set his sights on.  The blonde agent leaned back in his seat, stretching out his long legs intentionally under the table until they brushed past where Q was sitting more conservatively.  The Technopath jumped, feeling shoes brush his ankles, the toe of one of Bond’s shoes eventually coming to touch the back of his calf while one of Q’s feet became nestled between both of Bond’s legs.  As always, Q looked a little bit miffed at being startled, and 007 could easily see and feel the tensing.

But instead of pulling away, Q deflated fractionally, and then he was relaxing into the subtle touch.  

“That’s all I want, Q,” Bond said, nearly too low to hear and oddly wistful, like wind over ground that had once been fertile.

Q had straightened again, although he did not withdraw his legs from the mild tangle beneath the tabletop - in fact, he seemed to have forgotten them there already, heated slightly by 007’s impressive warmth.  Blinking in consternation, he finally stuttered out, “I beg your pardon?”

“You say you have nothing to give, Quartermaster,” said Bond levelly, and then added with uncanny accuracy that had the hairs standing up on the back of Q’s neck, “You think that you’ve broken everything inside of yourself that can make human connections, and the healing just won’t come.  But here we are: eating, talking, _touching_.”  He emphasized the word but didn’t move; playing footsie would have been easy, but simple contact was harder, especially when it came to a fragile persona like Q.  Even without bringing attention back to their enmeshed legs, Q’s eyes flicked down beneath the table reflexively, the hand still resting on the table flexing but never starting to tap out a pattern.  Bond took in all of these little things like many pieces in one puzzle, and nodded slightly as if to himself.  “You have more to give than you think.”

“Yes, but…!”  Q was growing exasperated, living dexterous hands into the air to gesture uselessly.  He ignored the soft growl Kaleb gave, as if the dog were trying to calm him down from the heights of ridiculousness he was fast reaching.  All of Q’s attention was on Bond now, Bond and his insane determination and senseless patience.  “But what if this is all I can give!?  What if I can never...do more...than this?”  He waved at their legs, even as the one between both of Bond’s unconsciously leaned against 007’s right ankle.  

Bond couldn’t deny the emotions that burned into him then like a brand, nor could he deny to himself just how much he’d hate never touching Q more than this.  He was keeping himself admirably in check with the exception of thoughtless touches and the occasional slip, but that didn’t mean his imagination had been entirely tame this whole time.  It rarely was.  It was only recently, however, that it had become preoccupied with one body in particular.  However, when Bond spoke out loud, it was with gravity and sincerity, “Then that is all I’ll have.”

“Bullshit,” Q swore with surprising venom.  One hand actually fisted and hit the table.  Kaleb jumped, backing up, and finally took his cue to leave - he might have been a dog for ages now, but Q was right that he still thought like a human.  Kaleb Dawson was more than cable of recognizing a lover’s spat...even if Bond and Q were not lovers, and were in fact discussing the possibility/impossibility of becoming anything of the sort.  Nosing open the door, Kaleb effectively abandoned Q and Bond to each other.  

Q’s glare was still in full effect, the heat in his eyes burning into Bond’s cold look like opposites colliding.  “You’re just about the most sexual man in MI6 history.”

“That’s what I do, Q, not who I am,” was the winter-cold reply, and only then did Q realize that Bond’s hands were both fisted on the table.  

Q withdrew, sitting back and pushing his fingers up under his glasses to rub his eyes.  As soon as the temper left, he looked smaller and frailer, somehow exhausted as if his anger had burned up all the fuel in his system.  “I’m sorry, Bond.  I-I didn’t mean to presume.  But that doesn’t change the fact that I may never be much of a partner to have, and pinning you down with my...quirks...feels like a jail sentence I wouldn’t want to burden you with.”  

“Q?”

A tired, resigned sigh.  “Yes?”  

“Do you realize that you’re rubbing my leg right now?”

Unexpectedly, the answer came with Q not even lifting his face from his hands.  “Yes, actually.  Call it an apology for labeling you as a rampant womanizer.”

Bond paused a moment, taking this in and analyzing it like he did everything else - he had to be forever alert with Q, because one wrong more could set him back a lot more than it would with any other person he was trying to get close to.  So, after a moment of thought, he leaned forward in a measured, near-silent stretch, legs managing to stay entangled with Q’s while he avoiding the dishes still on the small table.  

He caught one of Q’s hands in his, pulling it away from the Quartermaster’s face and savoring the little gasp of surprise that fell out of Q’s mouth.  Bond shifted his grip as he drew Q’s hand closer, maneuvering it until Q’s hand was cupped in his, facing the same direction with his palm upwards like a man offering water.  Then, like a man lost in a desert, Bond leaned forward and pressed a kiss into the middle of that palm, savoring the faint tickle of Q’s fingers as they brushed against the underside of his jaw and the faint stubble there.  The second small inhale of breath he heard ghosting out of Q’s mouth made desire flush hotly through his system, but all he did was lightly squeeze Q’s wrist and then pull back.  Q was staring at him, large, expressive eyes locked on his face.  

“Consider that an apology for ever giving you the impression that all I wanted from you was sex.  I assure you, Q…”  Bond sat back, eyes lazily half-lidded but pupils blown and dark; Q’s gaze seemed riveted on them.  “...I want all of you, quirks and all.”  

“It…”  Q had to clear his throat, because it sounded notably thick and breathy.  He managed to go on just a little shakily, that Quartermaster-aplomb long since gone, “It won’t be that easy.”

Bond just flashed a smirk - not the one created to be charming, but generally the one that said he had a bomb and no one knew where he’d hidden it.  “I thought you knew me better than that, Quartermaster.  I get bored out of my skin when things are easy.”

“You’re,” Q huffed, finally just giving up with a halfhearted roll of his eyes, “insufferable.  I don’t know how people stand you.  I don’t know how you survive!”

“I’m a Deathless, Q.”

“And I swear, that’s the only reason you’re still living.  You’re crazy, suicidal, and now borderline delusional.”

“But you don’t hate me, do you?” Bond pressed mischievously, blond head canted.

Childishly, Q leaned back in his seat.  After a moment in which he stared beneath the table at their crossed legs, he pressed his forward a little further, until he’d tentatively bracketed one of Bond’s legs in both of his.  “No, I don’t,” he said with lingering wariness,  but still, they were touching now, by Q’s initiative.  

Each of them had trapped one leg now (Bond had Q’s right, Q had his), and Bond took a risk and crossed his ankles behind Q’s right leg to effectively make it his.  Again, Q jumped, brows briefly lowering, but the fingers of one hand merely thumped once on the table before the unease faded again.  Bond was getting better and better at toeing the line of Q’s endurance for physical contact, and hope that eventually that line would disappear, if he were persistent and patient enough.  “Do you like me a little?” he tried to say in a teasing tone, but feared that the facade of carelessness failed spectacularly this time, because he cared too much.

When had he started caring too much?

Thankfully, Q just pursed his lips for a moment, clearly still nervous, but then crossed his arms and said with painful truthfulness, “I think I liked you the moment you told me it was going to be okay when the world was coming down around my ears.”

~^~


	16. What Happens in Our Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond 'dates' Q a little more, and Q trusts a little more...Q also ends up telling a story that no one expects him to tell, and things go downhill from there...
> 
> Or the chapter in which Q gets in 002's face and tell him exactly why he hates Silva, and MI6 gets attacked not long after. 
> 
>  
> 
> (This is NOT a fluffy chapter at parts - so be WARNED that Q does talk in blunter terms about what happened to him. I don't think it's particularly graphic, but I'm a poor judge of that :P)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo usually my chapters are the length of about 6-7 pages of a Word document...but this one got out of hand, and is closer to _9_. So enjoy the extra length!
> 
> Also, if you ever see someone's thought and it is not in _italics_ , please tell me! The formatting on Archive sometimes gets the better of me, and I've been realizing that I don't catch everything. Anything written like this: _'Blab blababa'_ should be in italics!

The next time Bond saw Q was actually in a large meeting that involved an unexpected group: M and other higher-up executives, the entire 00-division (Alec even having been recalled just for this), and a number of high-ranking people from Medical.  Q was leading the meeting, looking professional and only slightly nervous by the crowd.  He caught 007’s eyes once before speaking, and some of that tension seemed to leave him even as he remembered their conversation of the night before and flushed slightly.  Bond resist the urge to smile as he saw the red tingeing Q’s ears.  

“All right, let’s get down to the heart of things, shall we?” Q started, clapping his hands together and glancing to M and then, unexpectedly, the head of Medical, but only briefly.  Then he was the Quartermaster again, narrow spine straightening and expression becoming self-confident and serious.  “Everyone should be perfectly clear right now on the fact that Silva has a powerful Telepath in his employ, a man named Elias Winter who is arguably more dangerous than even Silva himself, if used correctly.  We’ve already had one security breach…”  Q’s dry little smile was perhaps a touch prideful, but no one could  blame him.  “...Which I stopped.  However, valuable information like MI6 codes simply cannot be allowed to run around willy-nilly in people’s heads while a Telepath is around.”

“And are we supposed to just forget the codes we know?” Alec asked in a mix of belligerence that came naturally to him and exasperation that came from having just got off a plane and not had a chance to rest yet.  He looked even more surly than usual, his dangerous smile replaced for now with a glower.  

“Obviously not, 006,” Q went on, unruffled.  He’d honestly dealt with more cantankerous attitudes before now - being Quartermaster to a whole group of highly trained killers necessitated a tough skin.  “We also cannot simply go without codes altogether.  Therefore, it has been decided to implement a new plan: the codes will all be changed, and the new codes you are given will lead only to me.”

“What?  We have to go through you?” barked 002 in surprise, and 007 knew M well enough to see her resisting the urge to place her hands over her face.  ‘Incoming danger’ was written all over 002’s face, and Q’s posture stiffened fractionally, but he didn’t back down.  

“Seeing as I never leave MI6, and yet have the capabilities to keep track of all of you, it’s the best solution,” Q retorted primly, “The fact that I’m a Technopath also means that reading my mind would be dangerous for Elias even if he were able to reach me.  Flesh and ordinary brain matter doesn’t do much to hold back a Telepath, but what I’ve got is significantly more tricky for a mind-reader to maneuver through.”

“Yes,” 002 refused to back down, ignoring that M was on the verge of court-marshalling him for being insubordinate and just plain annoying, “but that’s also because you’re an Augment, so pardon me if I have a hard time trusting you not to just sell us out to your own kind.”  Everyone in the room tensed, not least of which being Bond, although he hid it well; 002 wasn’t aware that there was another Augment in the room besides Q.  Another Augment who was now seriously considering putting him in body-bag…  M must have seen the slow, quietly growing violence in 007’s expression, because she caught his eye and nailed him to the spot with a warning look.  ‘ _This is Q’s fight_ ,’ her look said, but she looked tense, too.  

Bond told himself that the second Q’s nervous tic started showing, he’d act, but Q’s hands stayed still at his sides with the exception of a fleeting, momentary quiver.  Then his green eyes hardened like chips of jade behind his glasses, and he was stalking forward with an unexpectedly flinty look on his face.  “You’re questioning my loyalty, 002?” he asked in a lethally quiet whisper, only the faintest breathiness and the clenching now of his hands giving away unease or possibly panic.  002’s dark brown eyes narrowed, but before he could answer yes or back off with a sullen no, Q drove onwards with a soft and reckless fury, “Let me tell you just how loyal I am ‘to my own kind,’ as you so eloquently put it.  The last time I was with Raoul Silva and his allies, it was because I’d been electrocuted and kidnapped.  I was electrocuted at least five consecutive times after that before I lost the ability to count, because my nerves were starting to fry with the amperage going through the wires in my skin.  Perhaps I was still harboring loyalty to them after that, hm?”  His eyes flashed as his head cocked mockingly, and apparently 002 wasn’t that scary, because Q wasn’t backing down an inch and barely even slowed his eviscerating narrative.  “Well, if I was, let me reassure you.  After that, I was gang-raped by the majority of Silva’s crew, so if I can’t recognize them by their faces, I at least can tell you exactly what their hand-prints feel like, among other things.”  

002 was starting to look a bit grey.  Actually, everyone in the room was.  M’s eyes had widened and she was just staring now, as close to shocked as she ever came.  Bond had just settled into a grey world of resignation, his face stony and the anger long gone as cold as frostbite in his gut - because he’d seen the aftermath of all this first-hand.  He sighed, wishing he could stop Q from forcefully reliving it, but seeing from Q’s glass-sharp expression that that wasn’t going to happen until the Quartermaster had made his point.  

Actually, more than anything, Bond wanted to stand by his side and reveal that he, too, was an Augment.  That would only cause more trouble, though, instead of lessening it...although it would be worth it to get into a gunfight with 002 and see which one of them walked away from it with more bullet-holes…  

“I hope I’m making myself clear, 002,” Q said, making it clear by a swift, scalding glance that he was talking to everyone - noticeably, his glare skipped 007 and M - before finishing his deceptively quiet tirade, “I believe that any hope Silva might have held in regards to my loyalty towards him has been effectively extinguished.  Far closer to the truth would be that I get to sleep at night by imagining them all behind bars, or - on bad nights - perishing in a large fire that I may or may not set myself.”  Q was shaking almost imperceptibly, a steady tremor up and down his lean muscles, but it was impossible to tell if the quiver stemmed from rage or pain at the memories.  Now Q’s voice as deadly-low, and for the skinny thing that he was, he looked more intimidating than the whole room of quailing 00-agents, “If anything, I have fewer reasons to be loyal to Silva than anyone in this room.  Do you have any argument against that?”

“No, Quartermaster,” came the near-whisper of 002, and neither he nor any of the other agents said another word throughout the entire meeting.  Starting tomorrow, each of them would be going through the Technopath to get into MI6, and they would explicitly trust their security to him.  Not one complaint was raised.  

~^~

Q had left the meeting as soon as his part in it was over, leaving M to deal with more personal details - like telling the non-agents that they should avoid leaving the safety of headquarters when possible, to lessen the need for excessive checking in and out.  The 00-agents were likewise due to get a lecture on how the leash of MI6 would be tighter than usual around their necks, but the moment 007 caught M’s eyes, she flicked her gaze subtly towards the door - after Q.  He just nodded back, not mentioning that he would have slipped out after the other man regardless of her encouragement.  It was 007’s prerogative to skip meetings as he felt necessary, right?  

It wasn’t too hard to track the Technopath, mainly because there were a limited number of places to check: his office was empty, he wasn’t wandering amidst his minions, so 007 headed towards Q’s personal quarters, which were nearby.  

The door had been locked, but if 007 couldn’t pick a lock with the swiftness and silence of a fox slipping into a henhouse, he didn’t deserve his title.  He moved in warily, immediately taking in the form of Q standing across the small room with his glasses dangling from one hand, his other hand scrubbing over his face.  Q gasped a bit raggedly and spun around as 007 intentionally scuffed a foot, making his presence known.  “007,” Q recognized him, voice just a pitch or two off his usual timbre, combining with the obviously false levity of his greeting.  He worked his mouth to say something else, but lost his ability to do so, instead crumpling back against his desk, sitting on its edge and hunching his shoulders as he tried to hide the wetness of his eyes.  “I-I’m fine,” he stuttered, clearly embarrassed, scrubbing at his eyes again while 007 slipped further in and closed the door.  “Really!  That...that little speech just caught me by surprise.”

‘ _It caught everyone by surprise_ ,’ Bond considered saying, but instead considered possible courses of actions carefully, finally deciding on something else.  “What do you need, Q?”  He hesitated a moment before moving, even grimacing briefly because this went totally against his nature, and then descended smoothly to his knees in front of Q.  The distressed Technopath dragged in another ragged breath, but only startled a little, suddenly finding himself looking down at a sincere, rugged face with familiar blue eyes.  

Bond merely repeated his sentence in a voice that hovered skillfully between entreaty and solidly calm, “Tell me what you need.”

For a moment, Q looked confused, eyes dancing over the kneeling 00-agent.  The confusion was pretty much to be expected: 00-agents didn’t have a submissive bone in their bodies unless M had really run them ragged, and on top of that, the usual attempts at bodily comfort were absent.  “You’re doing it again,” Q recognized a bit dazedly after a moment, still leaning on his desk but now slipping his glasses back on.  

This time, Bond didn’t try to deflect or deny that he was purposefully behaving in a fashion that wouldn’t trigger any sort of flashback for Q.  “Better than me getting handsy,” he retorted with a downward twist of his mouth.  He was surprised when Q tentatively shifted a foot forward, until he’d created a little point of contact between his shoe and Bond’s knee.  Another wriggle and just the tip of Q’s foot was nestled slightly between Bond’s knees, and gesture that was not sexual in any way, and yet...quite a leap for Q.  

“I don’t know what I want,” Q finally admitted with a groan, pushing his glasses up his nose but then flinching noticeably when Bond moved.  The motion was only to reach forward a hand and lightly stroke his knuckles down the lower half of Q’s shin, following the Quartermaster’s lead and keeping all contact firmly in the realm of ‘merely comforting’ and friendly.  He kept up the motion, aware that Q was watching the steady up-and-down strokes like a volunteer at a hypnotist’s show watching a pendulum swing before their eyes.  Q’s lids actually lowered a fraction, and Bond bit back a smile of triumph as he saw some of the tension bleed out of Q’s shoulders.  

“Come on,” Bond said, suddenly getting an idea.  His eyes crinkled almost mischievously as Q looked up from the hand petting his leg to meet 007’s eyes questioningly.  Bond’s smile was somewhere between infectious and disturbing - but, then again, all smiles on the face of a 00-agent without explanation were disturbing.  “How about a trip to your beloved Q-branch?”  Bond got up and caught Q’s hand along the way, grabbing without thinking and then tensing for a moment as he waited for Q to fly apart at the seams.  

Unexpectedly...he didn’t.  In fact, somehow Q seemed not to have noticed the gesture, and instead one of those odd moments happened in which he disconnected Bond’s touch from all of his horrid memories of abuse at the hands of Silva’s men.  He pushed off from his desk and leaned - slightly - against Bond’s shoulder with another sigh.  “Dare I ask why you’re demanding we visit Q-branch?  This isn’t still about that C-4, is it?”

Since Q sounded more drained than worried, Bond began walking them out of the room.  He released Q’s hand simply because he didn’t know how far he could push him that way, but then found he couldn’t keep his hands entirely to himself - he couldn’t resist the urge to touch Q’s back lightly, guiding him down the halls.  Occasionally Q jittered ahead of his touch, not unlike a wary deer, but Bond found that so long as he kept the touches light and relegated to the neutral territory of Q’s back, it was tolerated.  It was ridiculous how proud of himself Bond felt over these little victories.  “You said I couldn’t have the C-4,” 007 continued the joke.

Q glanced over to see the smirk playing at the corner of Bond’s mouth, and rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded like ‘ _You’re hopeless_ ,’ before continuing in a more audible volume, “And I honestly never expected you to listen.  If that’s the reason you’re dragging me back to Q-branch, I’m going to have to say no to this plan in the name of national safety.  Besides…”  Q lost his dry humor, curling in on himself slightly as he walked; his face turned away in embarrassment, but he still admitted, “I don’t honestly want to be in the middle of a swarm of people...right now.”

“Q,” Bond said softly, earning him a look, which he met with honest eyes, “Have you forgotten how quickly I can clear a room?”  Before Q could begin to decipher what that was supposed to mean, they’d reached one of the entrances to Q-branch, and Bond indicated that Q wait there while he himself slipped in, broad-shouldered and suddenly transformed into something threatening.  

True to his word, in under five minutes, Q-branch had called it an early day and fled the premises.  Bond returned to the waiting Quartermaster with a pleased smirk on his face, hands now stuffed in his pockets but his gait still as smooth as a large cat’s.  “There.  The place is yours.  Now-”  He tipped his head towards the Biolink still in progress.  “-How well will working on that monstrosity distract you?”

Suddenly Q saw what Bond was doing, and a grin flashed across his face.  “Wonderfully,” he answered, striding into Q-branch with a spring in his step all of a sudden.  After his merciless lecture in front of 002 and the other higher-ups of MI6, Q’s memories had been crystalline and sharp as glass - the worst of them resurrected by his speaking of them.  He needed to get out of his head for a little while, something that 00-agents usually did by drinking or sex.  With Q, though, tech was his poison of choice when he needed to distract himself.  Bond remembered how Q could become completely oblivious to the world around him when he was working on a project, and right now, Q needed nothing but wiring and machinery on his brain.  

“I’ll help, if you want,” Bond offered, honestly not sure what that entailed.  In reality...he just didn’t want to let Q out of his sight.  

Q was perhaps thinking along the same lines, skeptically looking Bond over as they both paused in front of the hulking mass of tech.  “Hmm…” Q considered, and Bond wondered if his offer would be turned down...and if he’d actually leave even if it was.  Fortunately, for reasons all his own, Q suddenly shrugged and placed a hand on the Biolink; it powered up under his touch, and faint lights glinted as well against the Quartermaster’s pale skin.  “Fine then.  You could do worse things, I suppose.”

“True,” Bond agreed equably, “I could be breaking 002’s nose right now.”

“How about you fetch me a wrench instead.”

~^~

To be entirely frank, Bond wasn’t all that useful to Q.  Occasionally, Q needed tools (the less complicated the machinery, the harder it was for him to apparently just levitate it at will and call it over to himself), but mostly Q just looked like he dug at the conglomeration of wires and metal with his bare hands.  The whole thing was writhing before long, a silver and gun-metal orchestra with Q as its skilled director.  

Still, Bond made himself useful in his own way.  Mostly, he played guard-dog, and ensured that no one wandered back into Q-branch and broke Q’s seclusion.  Bond understood what it  felt like to have all of your walls torn down, and to need silence and solitude to build them back up again; the distraction of working simply detached Q from the train-wreck of his thoughts until everything could be rebuilt.  Bond moved about carefully and silently, never intruding, making a ghost of himself so that Q seemed to forget his presence.  

This went on for hours.  The Technopath was tireless - a machine himself.  It was soon late enough that no one was trying to peek into Q-branch anymore, and Bond was entertaining himself by breaching every privacy rule in the book and digging through desks for something to occupy himself.  Soon, the act of digging through people’s things began to occupy him in and of itself, especially because a few of the things he found were probably not supposed to be here.  Bond took the opportunity to confiscate a few interesting magazines and switch them out to different desks, smiling quite happily at the little bit of chaos he could see himself created for the future.  

“Ah, there.  Progress,” Q’s voice suddenly put something organic into the sterile, silent atmosphere, actually making 007 jump.  Q’s biolink was still nothing more than a mass of wires and steel to Bond, but now it was at least a uniform, spherical shape, sitting on a section of floor that Q had cleared.  Wires trailed away from the Biolink like limbs from an octopus, and they slipped out of the way of Q’s feet as he walked.  It was enough to make Bond want to pull his gun on the thing, but he controlled his knee-jerk response and walked over as Q looked around for him.  “Bond?  James, where did you go?”

Bond chuckled at how easily Q had ignored his presence, the Technopath only now returning to the real world to notice that his self-appointed bodyguard/possibly-boyfriend had wandered off.  “Here, Q.  I may not be a pinnacle of moral behavior, but I wasn’t going to just wander off and leave you by yourself.”

“Ah,” Q relaxed, the faint smile flickering shyly across his mouth saying he appreciated that, “I assume you’re bored, though.”

“Maybe a touch,” Bond hinted.  

Q cocked an eyebrow, and corrected dryly, “Out of your mind, aren’t you?”

Apparently Q was getting better and better at reading when 007 was lying…that was a disturbing thought.  Bond sidestepped it by changing the topic, “What’s this miraculous progress you’ve made?  All I can see is that it grew legs and moved from the table to the floor.”

“Philistine,” Q chided, “For your information, those ‘legs’ are now connecting the Biolink to the technological resources of MI6.  Hopefully, at least.”  He came to stand next to Bond and eye the whole thing, stroking his chin absentmindedly with one hand.  “I haven’t tried it yet, actually.”

“What are you waiting for then?” Bond asked in frank amusement, catching Q with a smile as the Technopath turned to him.  It was like an unexpected gift when Q smiled back, much calmer and more relaxed than he’d been at the start of this evening.  Q nodded firmly, his expression turning eager, and then waded back into the next of wires and cables.  

“You might want to look away, 007,” Q called back in a dry, obviously-teasing tone.

Unsure whether to be uneasy or amused, Bond held his ground but asked  back carefully with a quirk of his lips, “Why?”

Already, some of the wires that had been lying still and dormant until now were beginning to hover, lifting off the floor at the behest of the dark-haired Augment.  When Q turned around, his eyes had that eerie, computer-screen glow to them behind his glasses as he wielded his powers.  “Because I’m going to plug in,” Q said frankly, still with that wry twist to his mouth that showed quiet amusement at 007’s expense.  “And that seems to unsettle you about as much as it unsettles Kaleb.  Both of you are so technophobic!” Q complained.  

“Kaleb and I are not technophobic,” Bond defended even as he forced himself to watch and not wince as Q’s hand gripped one of the wires, leaning his head forward so that he could easily maneuver it to the nape of his neck.  “We’re just sensible human beings.  We only ever see computers getting ‘plugged in’.”  By now, Bond’s tone had turned uneasy and grouchy, and despite himself, his arms were crossed as he watched the proceedings.  He knew that it didn’t hurt Q, but the wires actually seemed to sink minutely into his pale skin like suckered jaws latching on.  

Q was starting to feel sorry for his teasing, apparently, and paused as he reached for the third cable.  A small, troubled line forming between his brows, he said, “You don’t have to stay and watch, you know, 007.  I’m grateful for the company, but I’m not demanding it.”

Bond continued to watch the wires as if they were threats for a moment longer before plastering a mostly-true smile on his face, and taking a seat nearby as if to watch the show.  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Quartermaster,” was his challenging reply to match the baring of his teeth.  

That earned him a quirked eyebrow, and the small smile returned to Q’s mouth, and expression Bond couldn’t get enough of.  “Fine then.”  Q plugged in the last wire, twitching briefly and closing eyes eyes before seeming to settle into the new feeling; the way he rolled his shoulders was reminiscent of a person working out a stiff muscle, relishing the brief burn as the knot released.  When Q blinked his eyes back open again, he looked more alive and relaxed than 007 had seen him in ages - since he’d been connected to the Thoughtscape in his underground home, in fact.  Q sat down and his eyes began to glow even more briefly, flickers of light touching his skin like small shooting stars to match the similar glow that danced along the wires he was connected to - at his  back, the massive sphere of the Biolink began to hum softly like an awakening creature.  

Q grinned.  “Marvelous,” he breathed, looking forward into the middle distance.  

All that Bond saw was that Q was facing _him_ , a look of ecstasy on his artistically crafted features, and it was easy to think that Q was looking at him.  It was just about the hottest thing that 007 could bring to mind at the moment, and if Q had really been paying attention to him, he’d have noticed the way the 00-agents pupils dilated, black swallowing the blue.  There rest of Bond remained motionless, giving away nothing even as pleasure swirled like a hot current through him.  

“This is bloody fantastic!  It’s working better than I could have hoped!” Q all but crowed, looking this way and that as if seeing images arrayed  before him, even if this Biolink was far less spectacular than the Thoughtscape - no colored representations of Q’s thoughts filled the air around him like a holographic playground.  “There are a few bugs to work out, of course, but…”  Q’s voice trailed off as he no doubt began focusing on those very bugs, hunting them down like a cat finding moths on a windowsill - with Q’s capabilities, it was probably just as easy.  

Bond found that he very much liked this side of Q.  Some could argue that his affection was one-sided - that he only liked Q’s vulnerability because it gave him something to fix.  With every passing moment he spent with the unusual young man, however, 007 simply found more things that entranced him.  It was true that he felt a fierce sense of triumph every time he managed to bring Q down from the height of panic, a feat that no one else seemed able to do, but just as often he liked to watch and marvel at the novel strength Q possessed.  He’d actually been as much turned-on as he’d been unsettled by the brutal lecture Q had given to 002, not that he was going to admit it for fear of scaring Q off.  Right now, all he could think was that the dumber members of Q-branch would  be scared of Q right now, in his element and wielding his power like an extension of himself - but Bond was thrilled by it instead.  He’d seen Q at his lowest, when he’d had no control and literally no power, so now it was breathtaking to see Q climbing back to the other end of the spectrum, where he was a technological colossus, a being that even Silva had been forced to take seriously.  The only reason Silva had put such an effort into crushing the elusive Quartermaster was because he’d been afraid of what he could do.

Suddenly, Q frowned, and the atmosphere in the room seemed to change.  “What is…” Q started to mumble half to himself, and then his eyes widened and he swore with feeling, “Shit.”  Immediately there were alarms going off in the room, and various computers were lighting up as Q presumably turned them on - programs began running on their screens as if a whole crew of techies were still in attendance.  The effort of controlling so much made the skin around Q’s eyes tighten, but his face was set in tense determination.  

“Q, what-?”

“I set off the alarms, 007,” Q began explaining before the question could even be finished, “We’ve got an intruder, but the regular warning systems didn’t catch it because this intruder entered by unexpected means.  Have you ever dealt with a Teleporter, 007?”

That sounded bad in so many ways…  “No.  Do they die like any other person?”

Q huffed a humorless laugh, and cracked a smile that looked a bit sepulchral as he got Bond’s drift.  “Yes, but you’ll find them much harder to shoot on account of how quickly they can move from here to there.  Most aren’t idiot enough to teleport into locations they haven’t seen before, so either this one is crazy, or Silva gave her good incentive.”

“Her?”  Bond was already standing, ready to act.  

“Computer console twelve.  On your left.  I wish I’d been able to give warning ahead of time, but I thought she was dead,” Q said succinctly.  He was clearly concentrating on something else, as the pulses of light going through the wires around him increased in speed.  

A picture and profile had appeared like magic on the screen indicated, showing a rather pretty woman with an exotic look and dark hair and a smile that looked too good to be true.  “Well, you caught the problem now.  Where is she?”

“In the building.  I’d give you better directions, but she’s moving fast...and without any apparent logic behind where she’s jumping to and from.”  The line between Q’s brows had reappeared, but now it appeared frustrated.  Belatedly, he noticed Bond digging in a drawer, and looked up long enough to raise an eyebrow and asked, “Bond, what are you doing?”

“Oh, just arming myself for the party.”  Bond brought out another thing he’d noticed while blatantly invading the privacy of people’s desks: a handgun.  With London more or less under siege, and MI6 at the heart of the fight against Silva’s Augments, agents weren’t the only ones comforted by the weight of a gun.  “But I’m staying here with you, before you ask.  If you’ve set off the alarms, everyone else is already doing what they can elsewhere in the building-”  Bond found the ammunition he was looking for and expertly loaded the weapon, checking its sites briefly.  “-But you’ve got only me.”

“Fine then.”  There was a clicking noise which Q explained a second later in terse, businesslike, Quartermaster tones, “I’ve locked down this room.  Shoot anyone you see who comes in, because they’ll have to be an Augment to do it.”

“Has she brought any other Augments into the building?” Bond asked, surveying the room and committing all of it to memory - it was a small trick that would allow him to notice the second anything was off our out of place, indicating a foreign invader.  

“Two, but we’re lucky: she can’t teleport other people very quickly without hurting herself or the people she caries.  Teleporting is tricky business, trickier when you try to do it with someone else.   I’m slowing down the two she managed to bring in as best I can,” Q admitted, then scowled, “After this, remind me to install more electronic locks on this building.  The mechanical ones are such a bugger for me to manipulate from these distances.”

Bond snorted at the very mundane annoyance in Q’s voice.  “I’ll be sure the topic comes up if we ever do renovations.  Is there anything you can do about the Teleporter herself?”

“Working on it.  Before coming to MI6, I was working with frequencies that would interrupt a Teleporter's movements and effectively create a sort of energy field that they couldn’t cross - like an asteroid belt holding off an incoming ship.”

“You watch way too much sci-fi, Q.”

“Shut it.  Science fiction is going to save your life,” Q retorted as he worked, sitting still except for sharp flickers of his eyes as his focus stretched out to the edges of MI6.  “I would have preferred setting this up at a leisurely pace, but I should be able to get a field like that up-and-running right now, but it will take a bit…”

‘ _Do we have a bit_?’ Bond wanted to ask, wishing he hadn’t opted to stay with Q - that he was instead out in the action, in the thick of things where people he knew might be dead or dying, fighting and killing.  But then he looked back at Q, so determined and focused, but also so vulnerable and undefended - whether MI6 knew it or not, Q was the heart of their defenses, but also their greatest weak-spot.  Q’s powers had the ability right now to protect everyone but himself, so Bond settled his weight evenly on his feet and stood ready for any trouble that might come into this room.  

He didn’t have to wait long.  

“Progress, Q?” Bond asked, getting tenser by the second.  There was a whining building up in the air that he hoped meant Q was getting somewhere.  

Q’s face twitched as if annoyed at the interruption, but he answered cryptically nonetheless, “Three minutes and MI6 is a Teleportation-free zone.”  There was a telling pause and then an added, “Hopefully.”

“Not helpful, Q,” Bond had time to growl before something caught at the corner of his eye.  Because Q had ensured that no one on their side would be getting in, Bond simply turned and shot, wasting no time.  He was rewarded by a shriek and then a ripple in the air.  By the time he’d turned - Q’s head jerking as well at deafening sound of the gun going off indoors - there was nothing to show that there’s been a person there at all except for blood-spatter on the wall.  It had to have been the Teleporter’s blood, because if it had been anyone else, the body would still be there.  

“Nice shot, Bond,” Q breathed, wide-eyed.

“Nice, but not fatal.  Keep working, Q,” gritted out Bond, gun still raised and every nerve in his body singing.  The next time he caught sight of something appearing at the edge of his vision, his bullet missed, but only because the Teleporter ducked behind a metal filing cabinet.  At first he thought that she’d teleported away again, until he heard a chuckling voice from behind the intervening metal, “Oooh, an agent then, are you?  You’re too fine a shot to be a technical analyst.”  

Something flew out from behind the cabinet, but the nose of Bond’s gun didn’t even waver, recognizing a paperweight long before it arced down and rattled across the floor.  The honeyed tones of the Teleporter purred forth almost immediately, “Not bad.  Considering you didn’t fall for that, I’d say you might even be a 00-agent.”  

Suddenly, too fast for Bond to even realize it, the air rippled at his side and he was feeling steel imbedded beneath his ribs.  He choked, thinking for a split-second about how easily a woman with these skills could kill everyone in this building, after she got a good look at the room.  She was right at his side, copper-brown hair brushing his shoulder as she leaned in and whispered to him, “I like to kill your kind the best.”  She twisted the knife.  

“ _ **Bond**_!” Q shouted, horrified even if he knew the truth about Bond abilities.  Maybe he was terrified regardless, because the Teleporter’s knife had clearly gone up under his arm - an arm still outstretched and cupping the butt of his gun as if he’d been frozen in time - in a killing blow right to 007’s heart.  Clearly, the Teleporter was skilled with a knife, as she slid it out smoothly even as the blond agent crumpled to the ground without another sound.  It was impossible to tell if he was even breathing, but what made Q truly suspect that the Deathless had been killed was that the gun skittered across the floor instead of remaining clutched in his hand.  

Then the Teleporter turned to him.  Her dark eyes brightened as she smiled a brilliant smile.  “You’re the Quartermaster, aren’t you?” she cooed, wiping Bond’s blood off on her pantleg as she turned.  

Q firmed his jaw, trying to hide the terror that was crawling through him, and the ragged pain in his chest that felt as if it had come straight from Bond - straight from a knife to the heart, a mortal wound, a loss of the ability to breathe.  Q wanted nothing more than to rush forward suddenly, to kneel next to the sprawled body - at the same time he wanted nothing more than to _rage_.  A Technopath’s powers were not particularly combative, but Q had a few tricks, and with the technology of Q-branch all around him, he could even become a threat to a person.  In fact, with the frightening amount of helpless fury suddenly boiling under his skin, he felt that he could _kill_.  

But he didn’t.  

Couldn’t.  

To attack, he’d have to divert the massive amount of attention that he was directing to defending MI6.  The barrier that would stop the Teleporter was almost up and running, Q’s mental fingers manipulating systems all over MI6 to make it work, but the key word was ‘almost’.  If Q got distracted or turned his powers to something else, his efforts would fail before completion, and he couldn’t allow that.  

In fact, all that he could do was sit on the floor and try not to shudder as the Teleporter began to walk lazily towards him.  

Behind her, unnoticed, Bond twitched.  

**~^~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol Believe me, it would have been worse of a cliffhanger if I hadn't made the chapter longer! At least I wrote enough so that you know that Bond is only _mostly_ dead, right?


	17. Deathless Vs. Visceral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what to put without giving anything away... This is the chapter in which things manage to get worse!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my formatting is causing a problem - if you spot anything that should be italicized, please inform me in a note! I hope it isn't detrimental to anyone's reading. I've caught a few of the mistakes already!

~^~

‘ _Bloody hell…  Why’d she have to twist the knife_!?’ With consciousness came agony, and not for the first time, Bond rather wished that he could just quietly die like a normal person.  His chest was on fire with an ache that spread everywhere as if he had a super-heated fist wrapped around his heart.  Said heart was... _technically_ beating.  His body was trying to get the muscle to work, but unfortunately, it had a ragged hole in it, to say nothing for his left lung - which was collapsed.  Bond had decided ages ago that there was nothing worse than a collapsed lung, because he could feel it stuck to itself like a damp, deflated balloon, and the only thing worse than that sickening sensation was when it re-inflated and those sticking surfaces were ripped apart again.  

This was one of the worst wounds Bond could recall getting in recent memory - one of the rare few that would definitely scar, like the one on his chest from where Moneypenny had shot him off a train that one time - and his mind started to sink down into darkness again to heal.  He wasn’t ready to be up and awake right now.  His powers were miraculous, but not instantaneous, and right now he…

Right now he was hearing Q’s voice, which got 007’s eyes to flicker behind his closed lids.  It seemed that Q was...rambling.  No...stalling.  ‘ _Good boy_ ,’ Bond murmured thickly in his mind, and clung to consciousness more sternly.  He wanted to cough and pant as one of his lungs suffered to do the work of two, but instead the agent did his best to play dead without also actually blacking out again.  

If Q was making the effort to stall, then the least Bond could do was put some effort into staying awake.  

007’s Deathless power wasn’t something that he could actually control, but he nonetheless concentrated, willing the process to speed up so that he could move.  The more he clawed and hung onto consciousness, the more he could understand of the conversation going on in the room around him.  The Teleporter was clearly playing with her food - a tendency that Bond viewed with lethal derision, because wasting time on gloating was a good way to lose your advantage.  Q seemed to know that, because he was encouraging her to talk with all many of mundane conversation.  In fact, Bond distinctly heard Q say something clichéd about “You’ll never get away with this” as 007’s lung healed enough to re-inflate.  The shock and agony of it was honestly not worth the trouble, in 007’s opinion, and it took all of the self-control he possessed not to suck in a huge breath and groan, giving himself away.  His heart was still jerking in ragged beats that were slowly getting stronger and steadier, making Bond’s whole torso ache.  

Unable to help it, the agent’s mouth twisted in a snarl, lips peeling back from his teeth.  Fortunately, he could hear Q still talking to the Teleporter behind him, so no one was watching as he cracked open one bloodshot blue eye, swearing silently as he realized he’d dropped his gun.  

He was also running out of time.    

“Well, Q, as fun as it is to chat with you, we really do have to get going,” the woman sighed.

“W-We?”  Q couldn’t quite hide the stutter and the way his voice cracked in panic.  He was running out of things to say to keep the woman distracted from her task.  

Bond reached out slowly with one arm, trying to reach his gun without either drawing attention to himself or tearing open his still-healing wounds.  He resisted the urge to snarl in defeat and rage as he realized the weapon had skittered well out of reach, and then decided he wouldn’t have time to worry about that - the Teleporter was talking again, and her footsteps were drifting closer to Q.  

“Of course ‘we’ - you’re the one that got away, Quartermaster.  Silva hasn’t stopped talking about you since you left, and having you here at MI6?”  She chortled.  “It’s not just inconvenient for the rest of us Augments, but it’s shameful.  Come now, Q - come back home to your own kind.”

There was a high-pitched whining starting up in the air, and Bond recalled what Q had been working on: an anti-Teleportation field.  Since Bond could also hear Q starting to quietly hyperventilate, it probably wasn’t quite up and running yet.  And that meant that Bond would have to move soon…

“I’d rather die,” Q snarled, sounding sincere, although Bond hoped he was still bluffing and trying to stall.  This was going to be hard enough without Q’s self-preservation instincts defecting.  Bond tensed his muscles, gauging what he could do at the level of healing he was at and then planning the twitch of every muscle before he made a move.  

Fortunately, the Teleporter didn’t take Q up on his offer.  “Not my department, I’m afraid.  I was given leave to kill any agents I wanted to, but Silva was clear that you were to return alive - sorry, dear.”

“Bond!” Q yipped, and the warning was hardly needed - Bond had turned his head just far enough to see his opponent and her target, and had seen the woman tense to move.  Bond was moving in the same instant, lurching to his feet and slewing around with far less than his usual grace.  Agony ripped through his chest as the fragile scar-tissue was tested and torn, but at least Bond didn’t have to hold back his snarl as he growled in the face of the pain.  He was perhaps lacking in finesse right now, but he still had enough power to be a monster - and he had determination in spades.  Ignoring his gun because fetching it would take too long, he charged, one whole side drenched in blood and his face a visage of furious intent.  

The Teleporter had spun around and her eyes had widened in the most rewarding way: she’d probably heard rumors from Silva about MI6 having a Deathless, but clearly she hadn’t made that connection with the man she’d ‘killed’ with a stab to the heart just minutes ago.  She recovered quickly, however, and turned back to Q where he was still kneeling on the floor.  His eyes were closed in concentration.

The whining sound was increasing, but the Teleporter nonetheless blinked out of existence as if reality had swallowed her.  Bond didn’t pause - he just kept running, following his instincts that were telling him where the Teleporter would turn up.  Q opened his eyes to see 007 running full-pelt at him, but before he could do more than gape in wide-eyed shock, willowy, female arms were wrapped about his neck and torso and the Teleporter had appeared right next to him.  

What was it Q had said?  That teleportation was a delicate business of calculations and careful numbers?  And it was dangerous to teleport with more than one other person along for the ride…?

Apparently Q’s anti-teleportation shield wasn’t fully functional yet, because the woman’s power barely twitched before Q gasped and felt himself being tugged away far faster than mere muscle and bone should have been able to move him.  

Then he was having a whole different mass of muscle and bone crashing into him from the front, and Bond was sucked in along with them.  Q had squirmed at the sensation of the woman’s arms grasping at him, the sensation rocketing him back into those hours at the hands of Silva’s men.  As Bond bodily hit him in the chest, however, and the agent’s calloused hands tenaciously locked onto him, all that Q felt was a surge of hope that he might make it out of this alive.  

Then the two of them were being whirled and jerked through a kaleidoscope of color and darkness, and it was clear that Bond was the blond-haired wrench in the mechanism, because the Teleporter running the show was screaming from the moment they were ripped away from MI6.  

And then everything was filled with agony like an explosion in the brain: Q gasped with no sound, and he felt more than heard Bond grunt in pain.  The man’s hands were locked on Q's upper-arms, and now his head bowed down against Q’s chest like the movement of a child begging for mercy from the torment.  Q felt as though he was being torn apart by the pressure of the Teleportation, and swiftly even his ability to sense the two people touching him faded.

Then everything snapped and went black.  

~^~

Bond woke up slowly, his first thought being that he’d apparently survived the botched teleportation.  Since he couldn’t seem to move, however, he pessimistically guessed that his meddling hadn’t completely stopped the process.  Slowly, he opened his eyes to bare slits, just enough to gauge that there was no immediate threat in the room.  However, a faint flexing of the muscles in his arms and legs informed him that he was most definitely tied to a chair, and…

With a jerk of his head, Bond opened his eyes all the way and looked down as he belatedly registered something warm and heavy against the outside of his left knee.  The same healing abilities that allowed him to survive deadly wounds also meant that grogginess was quick to fade for Bond, so he instantly recognized Q: tied with his arms behind his back, still unconscious, and propped against Bond’s leg.  Like a peacefully sleeping pet, Q’s head rested on Bond’s knee, and the agent fell a moment of unadulterated fear before he saw that the Quartermaster was breathing.  The way the Quartermaster was slumped so negligently - on his knees, not fighting the cords about his wrists - Bond had feared he was dead.  He noted with a scowl of frustration that Q was tied up with rope as opposed to restrained by handcuffs, meaning Q’s Technopath powers had been taken into account.

At that moment, the door across the room opened, and Bond switched his focus to the familiar, pale-haired man in the ivory suit who strolled in.  Bond kept his face impassive but unfriendly, fisting his hands as he subtly tested the cord that kept his arms pinioned behind him.  “What did you do to him?” he demanded with a definite snarl in his voice, jerking his chin down towards Q without moving his eyes from Silva’s face.  

“Oh, James, it’s nice to see you again, too!” Silva ignored him as he strode closer, only stopping when he was all but standing on Bond’s toes.  Bond would have kicked the dangerous Augment, or made some move to edge Q further away from the smiling monster, but Bond’s legs were secured to the chair-legs with literally no give.  Silva looked down at him pleasantly but with a scalpel-like glint in his eyes that spoke of his abiding anger.  “Or do you prefer Allistair Black?”

Bond decided to change tact and play it cool - or at least play it as cool as he could with worry for the Quartermaster buzzing like a hornet’s nest through his veins.  Every soft puff of Q’s breath that warmed his knee was distracting, and he was so desperate to just get Q out of here that he could have run through fire without hesitation.  Somehow, though, the agent managed to keep his voice flat and level as he replied, “Whatever works for you.”  

“As delectable as the name Allistair is, I’ll go with James.  James Bond, correct?” Silva continued to play nice with his smooth-as-honey smile and polite tone.  

Bond found it much harder to pretend he was completely unaffected by all of this when Silva suddenly leaned down over Q and grabbed him by the messy mop of his hair to twist his head up and two the side.  Silva’s other hand held a needle, which he slid into Q’s skin with the skill and swiftness of a pro.  By the time Silva stepped back again and left the Quartermaster to rest again on Bond’s knee, 007 was fighting his bindings and glaring murder at the pale-haired man.  

“What was that?” Bond demanding, struggling not to lose his head even when his mind filled with a million scenarios about what could have just been delivered into Q’s body.  The Quartermaster still hadn’t awakened.  “ _He was already out, you bastard, you didn’t have to do anything to him_!”  His training was sparking in his brain, harnessing his fury and fear into something resembling usefulness: ‘ _Keep his attention on you.  Your job is to protect Q, and the best and only way you can do that right now is to keep the enemy’s attention on yourself_.’

“James, James, James,” Silva tutted, moving away long enough to get a chair of his own so that he could sit across from the captured agent, close enough to prove that he was completely unafraid of retaliation.  Bond halted his useless struggles to free his hands, eyes narrowing and muscles all but vibrating as he tried to think his way out now that pure brawn clearly wasn’t working.  He glared back at the almost friendly look in Silva’s eyes, painfully aware of how close by Q was and how vulnerable.  “You can stop glaring daggers at me, James, I haven’t killed your Q.  I’ve just made sure that he’ll be...more _manageable_...after he wakes up.  You see, he’s unconscious and harmless right now, but once awake, there is very little I can do to keep his powers contained.”  Silva shrugged, his smile spreading like oil as Bond watched him and silently imagined every conceivable way to kill the man.  “Electrical current does a good job, true, but it’s such a hassle!”  He waved his hand as if to shoo the idea away.  

“So what did you inject him with?” Bond asked in a voice laden with enough violence to dent a tank.  His eyes hadn’t so much cooled as gone sub-zero in temperature, a frostiness cold enough to induce frostbite.  Now his hands were working more quietly behind his back, methodically seeking any give or weakness, although whoever had tied him had done a damn good job of it.  

Silva leaned back lazily in his chair, one knee actually brushing Bond’s in a motion that had to be deliberate.  His eyes looked reptilian as they took in the evident, tightly-reined fury inhabiting 007’s eyes.  “In layman’s terms, a virus.  Your Quartermaster is a Technopath, after all, so I decided it was time to see whether a more technological approach to controlling him would yield better results.  He’ll undoubtedly be quite out of it when he eventually wakes up.”  Bond fumed, unable to even grasp the breadth of his anger at the thought of Q basically being shot up with a computer virus to attack the cybernetic components of his body.  For years as a 00-agent he’d been trained to be calculating and cold, but somehow, Q had taken all of that training and fused it into a cold fire in 007’s belly.  The fury backed off in place of wariness as Silva’s hand reached out, not striking as Bond expected, but instead lightly touching the captured agent’s chin in an almost curious brush of contact.  

“As for you, James, I’m both impressed and miffed,” Silva informed him in a musing tone.  

“Oh?  And I thought I’d made such a good impression,” the agent deadpanned back.  He shifted his head slightly, avoiding the hand without being obvious about it.  

“Always so witty - a mask to hide fear, yes?” Silva needled while tilting his head almost pityingly.  James’s eyes narrowed further, and counted it as a win when Silva finally sat back again and returned his hands to his lap without any further intrusions into Bond’s personal space.  At Bond’s side, Q was starting to stir, but only barely - he just felt the slight, fitful shifts in breathing.  “I’m impressed because I can’t believe you’re awake and so alert already!  I knew that you were a Deathless, of course, but it’s a power that never ceases to amaze.”  Silva clucked his tongue and shook his head with clear appreciation.  “Not that it helps you to untie yourself and break free, of course.”

“Give me time,” Bond pleasantly smiled back, a shark nodding to a shark.  He fully intended to not only get free but to wrap some of this cord around Silva’s neck and tighten until the choking, gasping noises stopped.  

Silva just chuckled, clearly amused and not particularly intimidated, idly straightening out his impeccable suit.  The contrast between him and Bond was marked, but 007 blamed most of his rough appearance on the fact that nearly one whole side of his torso was drenched in dried blood.  A quick internal check informed him that all of the damage behind that wound was healed at least, even if the teleportation had rattled him and made him wish for death for one fervent second.  

As if Bond’s thought about the teleportation triggered a similar one in Silva, the larger man steepled his fingers beneath his chin and adopted a serious mien.  “As for my irritation, James, I have to tell you that you nearly killed my Teleporter.  Jasmina would never be foolish enough to Teleport with two passengers, much less with such disastrous results - the dear girl is far too well trained for that.  I can only assume that you did something?”

Honestly, Bond hadn’t been sure of the results of his last minute self-addition to the Teleporter’s load, but it was nice to hear that he’d come close to permanently removing her from the equation.  “Surely you didn’t expect me to just let her take my Quartermaster?” James smoothly parried, voice still charming and a crooked smile still playing at one side of his mouth, “Not after all I went through to acquire him.”

Q groaned at the sound of his title, and Bond resisted the urge to curse Q’s awakening as Silva’s eyes glinted with a whole new level of interest and slid away from Bond to instead fix on the dark-haired Technopath.  Nearly bumping his glasses off against Bond’s tied leg, Q began to come around, shifting against his restraints.  Bond’s stomach plummeted and he began to fight again with vicious oaths and snarls as Silva’s eyes lit up, and the enemy Augment stood up to grasp the groggy Quartermaster by the collar.  Bond couldn’t do anything as Q was dragged away from him and deposited in the corner of the room, back and to his right, which Bond could only see if he craned his neck.  

“Q!  Q, wake up!” he demanded almost viciously, never wanting to be free more in his life - not even that time he’d been captured in Russia, a memorable mission that had nearly destroyed him and left him paranoid of dark, closed spaces for months.  Somehow, Q brought up even more fear in him as he saw Q stumbling and tripping woozily in Silva’s careless grip.  Q’s legs folded up and he collapsed without protest into his designated corner, but at least Silva did the unexpected and ignored him then.

Chuckling, Silva turned back to smirk and address 007, “You think so poorly of me, 007!  I already told you that I neutralized the Quartermaster as a threat, and I’m not so low as to attack a man before he is even conscious.”  He was circling back to his chair in front of Bond by then, and his eyes grew cold and vicious.  “Now, an unarmed and bound opponent…”  He shrugged, then sat down again, this time leaning forward to determinedly put himself uncomfortably close.  Any closer, and Bond would have head-butted him and broken his nose.  

“B...Bond?” Q rasped, sounding disoriented and hoarse.  Bond knew that, if he looked, Q would look vulnerable and small as he recovered against the wall.  

“Keep your mouth shut, Q,” Bond ordered sharply and shortly.  The last thing he needed was Q regaining Silva’s attention now that it was back on 007 again - tied up or not, Bond was much more able to deal with the danger.  If nothing else, he was a million times more durable.  

“Play nice, James,” Silva cooed, and again reached out towards the larger of his two prisoners.  A muscle ticked in Bond’s jaw, but he held his ground and refused to be intimidated.  “Do you know what I can do, James?”  

“Q filled me in,” answered Bond coolly, seeing no reason to lie.  “So, I’m a Deathless and you’re a Visceral.  Sounds like we’re quite a pair.”

Q was quickly becoming more alert, although the slight shift and faint thud sounded like his attempts to get up were not successful - either because he was still groggy or because of the virus taking hold.  “Bond, don’t-” he started to warn, voice tight.  

Silva waved him off, “Quiet, Q dear, the parents are talking.  I don’t doubt that Q told you everything he knew about my abilities and those of my compatriots, but simply being told is such a boring way to learn, isn’t it?”  All this time, Silva’s hands were wandering, and Bond could all but feel his skin twitching in disgust at the intrusion.  The agent blew out a breath as if irked by all of this and nothing more, and stubbornly sat back and blinked boredly as the backs of Silva’s knuckles caressed up the buttons on his shirt, undoing the top few with idle intent.  

There was only so much that acting bored could do to protect him, though.

Silva tisked, pushing side Bond’s shirt to reveal the bullet scar from where Moneypenny had shot him off a moving train - it had taken him ages to forgive her for that.  “It looks like someone wasn’t being very careful,” Silva noted with a chiding tone as if Bond were a recalcitrant teenager instead of an adult MI6 agent with a license to kill.  Then again, that license to kill didn’t mean very much so long as Bond’s legs and arms were secured to a chair as sturdy as this one.  

Silva pressed his palm down suddenly on the scar and his power swelled outwards in a wave that Bond could _feel_.  Instantly, Bond’s back arched and he roared, because he could feel all of the old scar’s healing instantly undoing itself.  His flesh unraveled as if he were being shot all over again, without the help of something so mundane as a bullet.  As Q cried out in panic from across the room, helpless to do anything, blood gushed from the re-opened wound and ran across Bond’s skin.  A second later, however, it stopped as Bond’s healing abilities kicked in and fused the wound shut once more.  Silva sat back, a sickeningly interested smile on his face as he marveled at the Deathless’s work and meticulously shook the blood from his fingertips.  Not a drop got onto his impeccable suit.  

Bond panted, head tipped back, pain still a heady fog in his skull as it radiated outwards from the side of his chest.  “Yes, we do make quite pair, don’t we, James?” Silva asked with a smile like sweet poison, meeting the ice-blue eye that was cracked open and slanted his way.  “You know what I think?  I think that no one has found the one perfect way to kill you because there is no one perfect way.  But what about a thousand ways?” Silva cooed, and this time Q shrieked in rage as Silva’s hand descended on Bond’s bloodied side, his power not activating until he’d slipped a finger through the slash in the man’s shirt to reach his skin.  The second it touched, however, a world of agony opened up for Bond, and he was feeling a phantom knife plunging up into his chest again.  This time he could barely cry out as the damage stole his wind.  

He must have blacked out a bit, because when he blinked his eyes open and lifted his head, Silva was shoving Q into the corner again.  Apparently Q had gotten his feet under him and had made some sort of reckless charge forward, because now Silva was tying his feet while Q cursed him and kicked.  Once Q’s ankles were tightly secured, Silva grabbed Q’s chin hard enough to bruise.  “Careful there, Q,” Bond could just hear Silva warning in a sickly sweet voice “You don’t want to overexert yourself with a virus in your system.”  He let Q’s head go with a jerk, and Bond turned his head to catch a glance at Q’s furious, frightened glare - his face was also pale and sickly looking, as if he were feverish.  Definitely not well enough to be challenging Raoul Silva.  

Bond’s healing ability was scrambling to catch up, and Silva’s destructive touch hadn’t been as bad as the original stab-wounds, but it left 007 panting lightly and his eyes tight with lingering pain.  He actually felt a bolt of dread as Silva turned away from Q and walked back over to him again, looking smug and vicious, and maybe with a dangerous  glint of madness in his eyes as well.  “I think that the trick to killing a Deathless is to wear him out.  How long can that healing power work, James?”

Dragging in breath and making words felt like scraping glass around the inside of his chest.  “Why don’t you try it and see?” he challenged brashly, and flashed as smile that he was sure was specked with blood.  He hoped his smile looked as ghoulish as it felt, because for this, he was going to kill Silva as slowly as Silva was now trying to kill him - only without any Deathless powers on Silva’s side.  

Silva looked irked by the 00-agent's continued fearlessness, and he scowled briefly in the face of Bond’s devil-take-the-hindmost smile.  Instead of replying, he simply stalked forward, his dangerous hands already reaching for any bare skin he could reach.  Q screamed for him to stop it, but Bond just gritted his teeth until he was sure they’d all crack - and even then, he eventually couldn’t stop the cries of agony from racing up the walls like fire.  

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, basically, this was the chapter in which Bond follows Q into Hell and is now maybe regretting that decision... 
> 
> Also, if any of you don't know, I've got a page where you guys can read some of my works in progress! Please feel free to comment - hopefully some of these will be completed and posted this summer when I have more time! :D 
> 
> Link to my [Random Q-ness doc](https://docs.google.com/document/d/10MTLsoV0hKOS6EhS54IknjolsB7Vb0PXiLzT5TfLJ0I/edit)


	18. Bitter, Breaking Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're two sides of the same coin, Silva and Bond: breaking and healing. Silva wants to see just how much he can undo...
> 
> This is definitely a GRAPHIC chapter - ye have been warned! Tags for Silva being a creeper, and slightly-insane!Bond should be expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the lateness - I am usually very dependable in my updates, and hopefully one week late will be the latest I ever am! That being said, this chapter is a hair longer than usual, and I'm happy with the result (graphic as it is) !

~^~

Bond panted raggedly, head lolled over the back of the chair because he didn’t have the strength lift it... and because the tendons governing movement in his neck weren’t entirely re-connected yet.  His healing ability had slowed to a crawl by now, and Silva was still deriving great pleasure from taking the agent apart.  Apparently Silva’s powers worked more easily by reopening old wounds than by making new ones, which actually made a Deathless like Bond more susceptible to the Visceral’s powers - he had more healed wounds that most people could survive ten times over.  He was reliving every one now, as Silva found and tore open each in turn.  

Q had screamed himself ragged telling Silva to stop, but being hog-tied and bogged down by a virus had lowered his ability to do anything significantly.  Nonetheless, he’d gotten the lights to flicker as if the wiring were fighting against the storm of his helplessness and rage, and finally the Quartermaster had yelled as a last-ditch resort, “What in _hell_ have you done to my powers?!”

Bond had felt the need to be helpful, even though his head was dropped back by then and Silva had opened up an old gut-wound that was making every twitch of his abdomen torture.  “Virus,” 007 coughed, blood bubbling up to fleck his lips.  When he felt Silva’s thumb glide over his lower lip, sliding on liquid red, the agent got his jaws to snap shut, but missed the chance to bite as Silva pulled way.  Still, snarling with bloodied teeth felt good - or as good as anything could feel when he was being torn apart over and over again.  

“Bond, please stop talking,” Q begged in a pathetically small voice, reminded of when Bond had had his throat burned out by Silva’s Pyro and had sounded like wet glass being ground together.  It seemed as though he sounded similarly hard on the ears right now, and that made an insane chuckle burble up his throat, blood-laced.  

Ultimately, Silva ignored Q’s question, knowing that Bond’s answer was all the Technopath needed to know.  

Now, Silva touched Bond’s lip again, his powers causing an old knife-wound to open up there - a wild slash that had split Bond’s face from chin to halfway up the right side of his nose when it was first inflicted.  The agent hissed again as more blood wet his cheek and mouth.  “You should see the glare your Quartermaster is giving me, James,” Silva cooed, clearly amused as he turned his head and called with mocking lightness to Q, “ _Do_ put on a more pleasant face, Quartermaster - you wouldn’t want your pretty features to stick like that, would you?”

“Leave him alone, Silva,” Q grated back, tone shimmering with impotent fury that Bond could relate to, “None of this has any purpose.  You’re not getting anywhere.”

“Oh, but Q, who says that _this_ isn’t my purpose?”  Bond tensed in preparation for the touch he felt coming to his shoulder, and choked on a pained gasp as the bones dislocated and cracked the instant Silva's fingertips touched down.  He’d gotten that wound jumping from a car over a year ago.  Then, adrenalin had kept him from feeling it almost until his Deathless powers took over and erased the injury as if it had never been - now he could only endure it.  What made it worse was Silva’s incessant need to keep talking.  “I’m having quite an educational time here with James, and I don’t need to ask him questions anyway - you’re the one with the treasure-trove of information in your brain.”

“Ask me then,” the Quartermaster challenged bravely, recklessly trying to pull Silva’s focus away from Bond before it was decided once and for all which power would hold out longer: Bond’s Deathless abilities keeping him in one piece or Silva’s Visceral powers taking him apart.  

“Oh, no, Q,” Silva scoffed, “I don’t doubt that you could answer any question I posed to you - but whether you _would_ , truthfully, I highly doubt.  I’m just going to kill time until my Telepath gets back, because I think he’ll get the truth out of you much better.”

Feeling his bones and flesh knit with painstaking slowness, most of his body either shaking with pain or too weak by now to move, 007 suddenly started laughing.  In his mind, he was remembering standing in front of Q’s Thoughtscape, looking at precious knowledge wrapped in lethal red.  Q would have never stood up to the level of torture Bond was now experiencing (although Q’s Technopath physiology made him immune to Silva’s Augmented methods), but he could actually defeat a Telepath.  Kill a Telepath, in fact, if that virus in his system hadn’t completely disabled the kill-code Q had wrapped around anything MI6-related in his mind.  Silva had, unwittingly, bypassed the easy victory and decided to waltz straight into a trap, and Bond’s beleaguered mind found that bloody fantastic.  If only he could remember how to stop laughing…

The sound burbled up his throat, rasping and cracking as air escaped and entered in all sorts of places it shouldn’t have been able to - he had more holes in him than a cheap saloon door, and somehow never seemed to run out of blood as redness seeped out of all of them, dampening his clothing and filling his throat and lungs.  It was an insane laugh that would have unsettled the best of men, and for the life of him, Bond couldn’t think of why he should rein the sound in.  

“Something funny, James?” Silva eventually asked.  

Even with his head more full of pain and exhaustion than thoughts, the training in 007 detected the hint of uneasiness and annoyance overlaying the confidence in Silva’s tone.  That made Bond grin wider, and he forced his head up so that he could direct his best and most gruesome smile at the man’s pale face.  “I’m just thinking that I’ve already nearly killed one of your cronies.  I can't wait to get a shot at this one,” he answered in a glib rasp, using a half-truth to cover up what he was really thinking, “I've damaged two, actually.  How is your Pyro, Rettiker, doing?  I’m afraid I messed up his ugly face-”

The blow to Bond’s face was in no way unexpected, but he was pleasantly surprised when there was only muscle behind it and no Visceral power.  Silva could throw quite a punch, of course, but after the torture of before, it may as well have been a love-pat.  Bond blearily wondered if he’d have a hard time separating pleasure from pain after this... then, as he evaluated that thought, he wondered if he was toeing the line between lucidity and insanity a little bit hard.  

“-Bond, you idiot, would you quit antagonizing him?!” Q was blatantly yelling at him.  Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on one’s point of view), Bond had missed anything Q shouted before that because his ears were ringing and his brain wouldn’t come back into focus.  And then he was laughing again, because this was all just so messed up.  Q should have been the one in danger of being harmed - he was the more vulnerable of the two, with little or no combat training to speak of, and an Augment ability that was about as defensive as a paper-towel at the moment.  Instead, Q was trying to protect his up-untill-now indestructible 00-agent.  

Bond’s mad laughter changed to a vicious snarl in the space of a heartbeat when Silva again stroked a finger across his lips, apparently having developed a fixation with James’s mouth.  Silva backed off when bloodshot blue eyes snapped to him, bared, red-tinted teeth making it clear how much Bond would love to remove one of Silva’s fingers - or any part of him that got within reach - regardless of how his grip on reality was slipping.

“I think we’re done here for now,” Silva said with a regretful sigh, standing over Bond and looking at him almost fondly.  He dared reach forward one last time, gripping the short, sweat-spiked hair at the back of Bond’s skull to swiftly wrench his head up.  The two were nose-to-nose.  “We’ve learned so much, haven’t we?” Silva purred from so close that Bond could feel his breath, “You know, if I’d had you before now, I could have used you to train myself an army.  I still could, I suppose.  What better way for Augments to learn how to fight than by attacking a punching bag who can always come back for more, eh, James?”

Bond had used up the last of his energy, and could only clench his jaw and pant.  He didn’t flinch as he felt the lips touch his forehead, however, and barely grunted as Silva let go of him with unnecessary roughness.  

“I’ll be back tomorrow - with Elias Winter, whom I don’t think you’ve have the pleasure of meeting.  You’ll like him, Q,” Silva assured with sickening sweetness.  Bond couldn’t lift his head or open his eyes anymore, but he thought he heard Q suck in a shuddering, shaking breath.  Silva’s voice was still light and cheery with a bladed edge as he continued, “So enjoy your respite while you can, Q - because my Telepath is going to leave you as done-in as James here.  You should have joined me while you have the chance.”

Bond lost consciousness after that.  The last bulwarks of his power that had been holding him up crumpled and let him fall, right into darkness.  

~^~

So apparently he still had some of his Deathless ability left - _something_ was allowing him to drift back to consciousness again, although it wasn’t pleasant.  He was a mass of bruises in ways he hadn’t been since his childhood years, when he’d been a scrapper who didn’t know what an Augment was yet, much less that he’d grow up to be one.  

“Bond.  Bond, you bastard, please tell me you’re not dead.”

“Funny, Q.”

Apparently the words hadn’t come out quite as clearly and cattily as they had in his head, because Q immediately responded, “On second thought, don’t say anything.  I forgot how horrible you sound.”  Bond would have liked to retort, but whatever strength he had was focused right now on clinging to consciousness and breathing through the pain, so he just sighed a strained breath past his lips - he’d have tried through his nose, but chances were high that it was still broken.  There was definitely still the sensation of blood running down his throat, urging him to lift his head up as soon as he found the will.  

There was some awkward scuffling and thumping from Q’s corner of the room, which was out of Bond’s range of sight unless he wanted to risk turning his head - which he didn’t.  Awareness was a tricky thing right now, because the headache hunched like magma in his eye-sockets was monstrous, and he wasn’t entirely sure that his mind wouldn’t fracture and crack along with everything else if he moved.  ‘ _One more erg of pain_ ,’ he realized, ‘ _and I’ll lose my mind... if I haven’t already_.’  His thoughts and reactions were doing funny things, dancing around in his head and jumping from impulse to impulse like a child avoiding hot sand.  The image was enough that he started chuckling again, the sound grating on his ears but as unstoppable as before.  

“Please stop laughing,” came Q’s voice, from a little closer - the Quartermaster, despite still being quite tied up, was apparently inching and worming his way across the floor.  The younger man’s voice was sincerely pleading, and sounded on the edge of tears, so Bond quieted.  But that was all he could do.  Like a docile epithet to agony and pain, 007 relaxed against the chair, barely feeling the bindings anymore where they clutched his limbs to the chair, and let his world narrow to nothing more than the in and out of his own breathing and Q’s slow struggle across the floor.  The mental image of Q scooting along like a stork-legged inch-worm made cracked laughter threaten him again, but this time Bond quelled it before it could do more than rumble in his shattered chest.  He could feel himself mending, but at a crippled snail’s pace.  

Then, against his hands - pretty much the only part of him not damaged and battered - Bond felt tangled hair, and he buried his fingers in it reflexively.  Perhaps Q had finally gotten too tired and stressed to care, because he didn’t even flinch at the sudden, possessive contact against his head.  Instead, Bond felt the Quartermaster’s cheek nuzzle into his palm.  “Can you hear me, Bond?”

The warm, textured feeling of Q’s hair between his fingers centered him, allowing Bond to finally, _really_ focus with effort.  “At the least…”  Bond wheezed, and then collected himself before continuing with a pained cough, “...You could call me James.”

“James, then,” Q obliged gently, then sighed, “We’re really in a fix.  I want to tell you how sorry I am for getting you into this, but…”  Q’s voice cracked, and he surprised Bond by nudging against his hand again - the only contact he could give now that he’d hauled himself up against the back of Bond’s bloodstained chair.  In a wet-sounding but valiantly steady voice, Q finished, “But I don’t think words even exist for that kind of apology.”

“Hmm,” Bond hummed, accepting that, mulling it over.  He would have argued, but that sounded more painful than he wanted to contemplate.  Instead, he distracted himself by moving his fingers softly against that wavy, messy hair, tugging at it and soothing it in turn.  Yes, he was definitely losing his mind now.  

“Your powers are still working,” Q said abruptly, sounding more than a bit surprised.  The Quartermaster shifted as if trying to sit up straight, which was annoying, because it disrupted Bond’s grip on him.  

He’d have to talk more after all.  Shame.  “Marginally,” he grated, “Not enough that I’d count on it.”

“Enough to keep you alive, though,” returned Q’s determined, clipped tones.  “Here: I don’t know how much good it will do, but I’m going to try and untie you.  Seeing as I have only my teeth to work with, this should be... interesting.  Probably embarrassing.”

“I’m not going to judge,” Bond managed to joke back.  

Q released a dry chuff that might have been a laugh, a really stifled one.  Bond could sense the Quartermaster looking at the knots around his wrists, hopefully ignoring the raw skin that was knitting itself back together with such torturous slowness.  

“For the sake of truthfulness-” Bond got his voice working again.  

“I didn’t know that truth was a currency that 00-agents like yourself dealt in,” Q commented drily.  

Bond ignored him, but smirked at the familiar snark - it grounded him just a bit.  “As much as I hate to admit it... I don’t really think... I can do a lot of escaping, even if you untie me.”

Instead of growing frantic or saying something to deny Bond’s words, Q just sighed, making Bond’s fingers curl in as if they could capture the warm breath they felt ghosting across them.  “Honestly?  Neither can I.  This virus Silva gave me is a real monster.  I’m trying to get rid of it, but that feels a lot like chasing a rat in a maze - and while I’m familiar with the maze, I am neither as small nor as flexible as the rat.  And the rat has a head-start, not to mention its chewing on anything within reach.”  Saying no more, Q began tugging at the bindings with his teeth clumsily but determinedly.  

Bond sank into silence, unsure whether he was conscious or not.  A few times, Q bit him, neat white teeth pinching his skin, and the Quartermaster would always back off to mumble a swift apology.  Considering how mild the discomfort was compared to everything else that Bond had endured (and was still enduring as he healed), it was ludicrous for Q to be apologetic, and 007 had to strangle mad laughter again - for Q’s sake, he did.  For Q’s sake, he realized with strange clarity, he’d do a lot of things.  

It was honestly a surprise to both of them when, with one last sharp tug, the ropes loosened off.  “I did it,” Q breathed in quiet shock, and 007 decided it was his turn to be useful now.  Bracing himself and then leaving no time for second thoughts, he slipped a hand free and wrenched his arm forward - the sound of bone grinding back into socket was gruesomely loud, making Q yelp while 007 bit the inside of his cheek against a shriek.  He sighed a moment later, his other - less damaged - arm coming forward to cradle the first, feeling the pain ebb in the shoulder joint.  It was one pain removed from a score of other agonizes, but it was something.  Bond gave himself a few slow breaths to collect himself again, then tested the motion of his arm (a pleasant surprise: he could move it relatively well) before bending forward to untie his legs.  He felt his healing power kick in like a flush of warmth down his fingertips, restoring circulation in seconds.  Maybe he wasn’t burnt out after all, but instead filling back up again like a rain-fed lake after a dry spell.  

Q was, of course, still sitting behind his chair, watching him like an alert but trussed-up bird.  It became clear then why Q hadn’t managed to maneuver his tied arms in front of him then - it seemed that Silva had taken the time to run a length of rope from Q’s wrists to his bound ankles, leaving Q with a limited number of options for moving.  How he’d even managed to squirm across the floor to Bond was a minor miracle.  Once he was completely freed, Bond turned around on his chair without getting up... because he didn’t trust himself with standing yet.  He tried on a worn, lopsided smile, hoping it reached his eyes even if he could feel how thin the layer of charm was.  “Want a little help with those ropes?”

Up until this point, Q had only seen Bond either from an angle or from behind, and now - faced with the agent in all of his gore and roughness - he was staring with eyes that were huge behind his glasses.  The virus must have been acting not unlike a feverish sickness in the Quartermaster’s system, because he looked flushed, and beneath the points of mottled color on his cheeks, he now looked faintly green.  It took him two full blinks before he shook himself out of his stupor and stammered, “Sorry - I mean, yes, please, help would be greatly appreciated.”  When Bond nodded (electing to ignore the staring for now, because he hadn’t the energy to spare) and reached for Q to bring him closer, Q flinched away involuntarily before getting a grip on himself again.  “Sorry - sorry.  It’s just... 007, you make a rather formidable sight at the moment.”

“You mean I look like a particularly mobile corpse,” Bond corrected.  He could feel nearly every inch of his clothing sticking to him or crackling with dried blood, some already flaking off like rust in places.  

Q’s mouth twitched downwards at the edges in a moue of disapproval, but in the end he just sighed and nodded.  “You’re covered in more blood than the average three people have in their bodies, thanks to your Deathless abilities,” Q elaborated in a murmur as he finally let Bond’s relatively un-bloodied hands take hold of his shoulders.  This time when Q shivered a bit, it was likely because of his body fighting the virus, and Bond managed to haul him fairly easily around from where he’d been propped against the chair’s back.  Bond still felt like he’d been run over by a train, but Q was light and as cooperative as he could be, letting the bloodied agent touch and move him.  

Already-scuffed knees dragged on the floor until Q was kneeling by 007’s feet, arranged so that he was facing away to give the agent access to the ropes - and to give him the choice of looking away from the gore.  In all honesty, Bond felt sorry for Q for having to look at him, because if 007 were given a mirror right now, he would have probably feared it more than a gun in his face.  And Q had watched most of these bloody wounds being made, as Silva had played with James’s old injuries like a violinist on his strings.  

Unexpectedly, however, the Quartermaster kept his head turned, maintaining 007 at the corner of his eye.  “So busting down the door and escaping is out of the question?”

Bond’s mouth ticked up at the edges, and he once again had to fight a bitter chuckle - thinking too hard seemed to make the edges of his mind grind together, bits of thought and sanity flaking off each time.  “Quite.”

“We could prop the chair against the door to jam it shut.”

“Door opens outward,” Bond was able to answer without thinking, narrowing his eyes against dizziness as he leaned forward to unravel the ropes around his companion’s limbs.  At least his training was still intact, if only for minor observational skills.  Q still had his head twisted around to see him, which urged Bond to raise a brow and meet his eyes with a wry comment, “Most people stare at things they _like_ to look at.”  

Q twitched a bit at being caught-out staring, his shoulders jumping and eyes blinking as if he hadn’t realized he was being so obvious.  The flush on his cheeks darkened in earnest to an actual blush, and Bond could tell by the slight rotation of his shoulders that the Quartermaster would have slunk away from the conversation if he’d been physically able.  Instead he glanced down guiltily and admitted, “I’m actually worried that you’re going to go bat-shit crazy on me if I don't watch you carefully enough.”

Blunter words had never come out of the Quartermaster’s mouth, at least not within Bond’s range of hearing - and that was saying a lot, considering how much tech Bond wrecked, and just how furious that made the Technopath listening to the destruction in his earpiece.  What made it worse was that Bond couldn’t find it in him to just brush aside Q’s concerns…  The agent sighed, stopping halfway through untangling the knots, and let his arms rest over his knees.  Then he hung his head, feeling more tired than he had a right to feel.

Maybe it was the same with Silva’s torture: he was feeling years worth of lethal injuries all at once, and likewise was being hit with a lifetime of weariness that he’d somehow been pushing back all this time.  No one knew much about Deathless like Bond - so who was to say that this wasn’t the ultimate end that a Deathless met?  The body lived but the mind and will withered away...  

“Bond.”  Something brushed Bond’s fingertips, making them twitch, hungry for the grip of a gun; their calloused pads felt a shoulder instead, Q’s shoulder as the smaller man awkwardly shuffled himself around.  As if from far away, Bond focused on his voice, hearing the hesitant, gentle worry in it.  Q was quite lacking in other ways to express himself, so he did what he could and gently butted his head against 007’s where it hung within reach.  “Bond, can you hear me?” he asked again.

Somehow, it took more effort to answer than it had before, which was odd.  He’d been functional a moment ago, hadn’t he?  He’d almost managed to untie Q, but now he was shutting down, as if Q’s presence and Silva’s absence had stabbed holes in his endurance.  Funny, how Silva had had to use all of his tricks and who-knew-how long to take Bond apart, but the Quartermaster had done it just by showing concern - and he’d done it better, too.  “Yes,” Bond heaved in a breath and managed to say on the exhale.  

Unexpectedly, the Quartermaster’s head stayed close, making Bond wonder where his skittishness towards human contact had gone (especially human contact with a man so covered in gore that he had to be barely recognizable).  Purely on reflex, Bond’s taxed muscles all tensed as Q’s forehead nudged at his temple.  Q froze.  “I’d rather you didn’t attack me, if it’s all the same to you,” he managed to say almost dryly.  

And that, of course, set off the mad laughter trapped in Bond’s gut - blood from a different kind of wound pouring out as soon as he stopped applying pressure to stem it.  He was vaguely aware of Q now yelling at him, trying to get his attention, but it was a completely useless effort until Q twisted around a little bit more and Bond somehow found his face buried in the juncture of Q’s shoulder and neck.  He still continued to laugh, but if was muffled now.  He could feel strained flesh and raw wounds protest the jerking and flexing of his torso, but pain seemed to be in a loop that he was caught in forever, the only anomaly being Q.

Hand still tied, apparently ignoring all of the blood smearing on him, Q held his ground, murmuring over the laughter with his mouth close to Bond’s ear.  In all truthfulness, Bond was a terrifying kind of insane when he cracked, his laughter uninhibited and sharp, rolling and cruel - the kind of sounds that set off warning bells in the heads of sane people.  Q was therefore either deaf or a little bit crazy himself, because he didn’t seem affected, and the only sign of his unease was that he was gently trying to hush his agent and get the man to stop.  

It was only when the laughter faded that Bond was able to hear what Q was saying, the words still repeating patiently with little puffs of air against his ear and blood-spiked hair: “You’re all right, James.  In all the ways that matter, you’re all right.  Just come back to me.  You're all right.”

Bond huffed, but this time didn’t crack and tumble back into mad laughter.  “You’re... a poor liar,” he got his voice back enough to rasp sardonically, finally lifting his head.

Q settled back on his heels, facing Bond again and looking up at him clearly and unflinchingly.  It was Bond who actually flinched, mouth setting into a hard, disturbed line as he saw blood - his own blood - now smeared against Q’s cheek, more smudging the collar of his shirt a dark ochre where 007's head had rested.  “Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Q sensibly pointed out in an admirably light tone, as if he’d been neatly typing off an email instead of trying to keep the psyche of a tortured agent intact.  “We are, at the worst, back where we started, and having a normal conversation.”

‘ _Back where we started_ ’ meant that Bond still hadn’t untied Q, so while he hummed a noncommittal acknowledgement of Q’s statement, he once again reached forward, this time only moving Q enough so that he could stretch over his shoulder to the ropes.  He’d had the knots almost defeated earlier, and now wrangled them into submission with determined tugs of his fingers.  Q’s hands came free with a slithering of cord.  “Does your idea of a normal conversation always include bondage and copious amounts of blood?”

“Those details are categorized as scenery, not conversation,” Q pointed out, pulling his arms forward and wincing as they cramped.  He fought through the discomfort until he had his limbs arranged in front of him once again and was able to shift from kneeling to sitting - and thus begin untying his ankles by himself.  “ _You’re_ the one who brought up bondage and blood verbally.”

This dry and collected Quartermaster with his quips and feigned annoyance was familiar to Bond, so he let a smirk tug crookedly at his mouth.  Since the motion didn’t hurt, he figured that the worst of the cuts on his face had finally sealed up.  “Contrary to popular belief, I’m a realist first and a charmer second.”

“Clearly,” Q retorted, but glanced up from his knot-untying to check Bond’s reaction, being sure that his teasing wasn’t going too far.  Fortunately, Bond’s fragility was localized, and light banter with his Quartermaster did more to center him than anything else.  Q opened his mouth as if to ask something, but then the ropes gave way beneath his fingers with a pleasant jerk, pulling back his attention.  Q all but groaned in relief.  “Finally.  Even if we never get out of this room, I’d rather spend my time with my limbs free.  Can you help me stand, 007?”

Bond had to wonder why Q would bother, but he shrugged and nodded anyway.  “So long as I’m not required to leave this chair.  Don’t get me wrong, I hate this chair with a passion by this point, but standing would most likely result in a swift meeting with the floor,” Bond admitted ruefully but candidly.  

“Noted,” Q nodded, then took the hand offered to him, letting his other hand be guided to the back of the chair for leverage.  Q got up quite easily despite his returning circulation, but then swayed alarmingly and went pale in a way that could only be attributed to the virus.  Reflexively, Q’s grip tightened, one hand instinctively moving from the chair to the more familiar feel of Bond’s shoulder as the Technopath teetered.  

Bond barely felt the pain of Q’s slender fingers digging into bruised muscles as he instead focused on Q’s tightly closed eyes and swift breathing.  “Okay?”

“In a moment,” Q got out tightly, then admitted in a more blunt rush, “Shit, I haven’t felt this bad since I got the flu two years ago.  I was bed-bound for days!”

One of Q’s hands was still in Bond’s, so the agent gave the dexterous fingers a careful squeeze.  “No bed now, I’m afraid.”

That earned him a snicker and a crooked smile, before Q opened his eyes again and seemed to steady himself, looking around the room with more focus.  “Indeed.  Stay here, 007.  Since breaking down the door is out of the question, I’m going to see if I have enough power to work the lock.  I doubt it - simple locks are harder than complex computer systems, if you recall - but I’ll hate myself if I don’t at least try.”  He pushed off Bond’s shoulder to begin walking unsteadily to the door, footsteps gaining a bit more balance before he reached it and placed a hand over the doorknob.  

Bond and Q must have both been holding their breaths, because when Q let his out in a rush and a curse a moment later, Bond exhaled deeply.  He continued to curse for a bit longer, but then stumbled dizzily back to Bond’s side without victory.  “Well, that was a practice in futility.  This virus has chewed enough holes in my abilities that I can’t even turn lights off and on without touching the switch, so I guess I should have expected this.  I’m afraid that we’re stuck here.”

“I’m not fit to walk out of here anyway,” it rankled Bond to admit.

Q just smiled back a lopsided, almost-side smile.  “Then I wouldn’t have left even if I could.  I’m not keen on my chances of escaping without back-up,” he said before 007 could argue.  Then it was the Quartermaster reaching a hand down towards Bond, eyes fever-bright but inviting.  “Come on then.  You said you hated that chair, and the rumor is that all you agents types like having yours backs to the wall, if you can walk a few steps to get there.”  

This looked like a bad idea... but Bond was truly eager to anywhere but on this bloodstained chair where Silva had been ripping apart his wounds for hours.  “If I fall, don’t try and catch me,” he demanded as he took Q’s hand but instead used the chair for support - the grip on Q’s hand was merely done because it reminded him that Q was there, and safe, and both of them were at least alive.  Standing brought with it a wave of intense dizziness and such a crashing rush of renewed pain that he nearly blacked out - but as he struggled to the surface of it, he was still on his feet.  His blood was roaring in his ears and his vision tunneled, but it was fading.  

“Any new cracks in your mind?” he heard Q ask, voice trying to be wry but sounding worried instead.  Bond must have looked bad if Q were able to ask such a poignant question.  

Bond just shook his head... because he wasn’t honestly sure.  Instead he began placing one foot in front of the other with the bull-like stubbornness that had gotten him through missions that lesser men would have given up on out of logic or fear.  “Let’s just find some place to sit until I can decide what we should do next,” he gruffly requested instead, not wanting to just give up on escape, no matter how efficiently Silva had incapacitated both of them.  Bond didn’t like how pale and shaky Q looked, and his own Deathless powers were still sluggish and finicky.  In fact, both of them nearly tumbled as they reached the wall and slide down it like two cripples - once again, Q surprised Bond by keeping close, ignoring the fact that he was leaning against a blood-caked side.  

“Q?” Bond had to ask.  

The Quartermaster’s eyes were closed, his face slightly tense as if concentrating, or trying to reign in some lingering dizziness.  “Hmm?”

“My sanity won’t suffer for a few inches between us, unless you just fancy getting blood all over yourself.”

Q sighed, but didn’t open his eyes _or_ move away.  While he hadn’t been tortured as Bond had, he looked tired, a faint tremor visible in his hands as he stretched his legs out and folded his fingers together on his lap.  “The thing is, James, every time I close my eyes, I see you back in that chair with Silva across from you, his hands all over you... and pretty soon I hear the screaming in my head, no matter how logic tells me that it's not happening right now.”  Belatedly, Bond realized that Q may not have been attacked this time by Silva, but he _had_ been forced to watch and listen and do nothing throughout the whole experience.  007 jolted as he felt slim fingers knot themselves in the stained material of his sleeve.  Q settled a bit more next to him, knees drawing up once more and his thin frame shifting itself to get more comfortable, even though his grip never wavered.  “This way I can close my eyes and know that you’re _here_ ,” he finished off quietly but determinedly.  

The two men were left to sit in companionable silence, Q fighting off the virus as best he could and Bond considering the stubborn loyalty of a Technopath who would cover himself in blood for him, just to remind himself that 007 was alive.  

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got away with me a bit - for example, I did not plan to put madness into the mix, but then I recalled the torture scene from one of the recent 007 movies with Daniel Craig ('Casino Royale' I believe), and decided it would be fitting. Besides, after what Bond went through, anything less than insanity is a miracle...


	19. Our Old Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is getting worse and Bond can't think of any way to get out of this - until a bit of help arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late but also a bit longer than a normal chapter, so hopefully worth it! There should be equal parts cute and angst in this one... 
> 
> The lateness sadly does not mean I've done nay more editing than usual - the reason I can post so fast is that I write and then post in swift succession. So I always appreciate any error-catchers!

~^~

Neither of them had any idea what time it was, because Q’s impeccable internal clock had been messed up along with the rest of him.  

“Just rest, Q,” Bond finally sighed as he watched Q fidget where they still sat next to each other, the Quartermaster’s wary eyes constantly flicking to the door while studiously and obviously avoiding the blood-stained chair.  “It’s not going to make much difference how alert we are anyway if Silva and his thugs come in,” Bond grumbled with disgruntled truth in his voice, “There’s not a lot we can do.”  As Q glanced over at him as if to argue (seeming to have fully accepted 007’s bloody face as normal now), Bond noticed something he’d been worried about earlier: the odd dilating and contracting of the Quartermaster’s pupils.  Without much warning, he grabbed Q’s chin and angled his face a bit more to the light, noticing that the pupils of Q’s eyes reacted to the brightness but also flickered and changed on their own.  

“If you’re looking at what I think you’re looking at…” Q supplied slowly, carefully taking Bond’s fingers and easing them away from his face.

“Your eyes are reacting like you’ve got a concussion.”

“Yes - that - that is actually my attempt at regaining my equilibrium,” Q explained more effectively, closing his eyes and sighing.  “You saw it before, correct?  The last time you and I were under Silva’s roof?”  Q didn’t wait for Bond to reply before going on tiredly, “Think of it as your healing, only on a technological scale and a far slower rate.  Both then and now, my mechanical systems are shot, for lack of better terminology, but I’m trying to repair everything.  It’s... complicated.  And while I do not have a concussion, I can assure you, I feel as though I have some sort of system-wide equivalent.”  Realizing who he was talking to - a man who had just survived hours of torture under the hands of a sadistic Visceral - Q sat up and opened his eyes again, apology all over his face.  “Not that that compares to what you-”

Bond just started chuckling, a rolling sound that strained the last vestiges of tears in his abdomen and cracks in his ribs.  “Sorry,” he finally managed to get past the laughter, aware of Q staring at him with a tight frown.  The Quartermaster truly didn’t look very good, and while Bond was slowly but surely healing, Q was worsening, as evidenced by the fact that he now looked dizzy just sitting.  “Not funny.  I get your point, though.”  Bond let it stay at that for another moment, relaxing back against the wall again with his senses doing lazy sweeps of the room - it was habit, at this point, even if he told Q it was useless.  “I also meant what I said.”

Q had sat back as well, looking flushed and feverish, and now his eyebrows quirked down in a questioning frown.  “About what?”

“That you should go to sleep.”

“Bond, I don’t-”

The larger man interrupted his bespectacled companion by sifting his left arm out from in between them and instead inserting it behind Q’s shoulders; the hard ridges of his shoulder-blades pressed into Bond’s forearm as Q hunched in surprise.  He didn’t pull away, however, and when he didn’t voice any verbal complaints, Bond took that as permission to curl his arm in, bringing the scowling Quartermaster with it.  Q had a cantankerous look on his face not unlike a cat would when submitting to being hugged by an over-exuberant child, but he didn’t resist.  “I guess I had your blood all over my clothing anyway,” he groused halfheartedly.  Beneath the snark, his eyes looked tired, though.  

“I’ll buy you a new wardrobe when we get out of this.”

“Hmm,” Q hummed, as if considering the offer, even as Bond’s heart gave a happy skip at the feeling of Q shifting his weight into him a little bit more.  “While you’re practicing your optimism, I’m going to try and beat off this virus.  That will include me... going into my head a little.”  Q’s eyes grew uneasy, and he looked down at his hands as they played with the hem of his shirt.  Bond, without consciously considering the motion, used his free hand to usurp the edge of cloth so that the Quartermaster’s fidgeting hands were faced with his fingertips instead.  Q, with surprisingly little hesitation, accepted the switch.  His touch was dry and warm, and he folded Bond’s fingers around as if testing their range of motion for possible strains or breaks, even though there were none.  “Could you…?  That is, would you mind…?”  Q gave up on his awkward half-questions with a snort and a quick, muttered, “Shit,” before sighing and just blurting with strained professionalism, “Could you watch over me while I try to patch up whatever Silva’s bloody virus did to my system?”

Bond froze in place, pale blue eyes on Q’s green ones and fingers now folded up tightly under the combined net of Q’s two hands.  Then he tried on a roguish grin, feeling dried blood crack on his face.  “Is that an order from my Quartermaster or a request from the beautiful man I’m courting?”

It was almost worth this whole bloody mess just to see Q gape like a landed trout at those playful words, leaning back from Bond as far as the arm around his shoulders would let him.  “I… er…  What-?” he stammered, but at least the pink on his face was no longer from sickness, but instead from a perfectly healthy dose of embarrassment.  Bond continued to grin until Q finally got it together enough to glare and point out dryly, “I wouldn’t have thought it possible to turn a situation like this sexual, but somehow you’ve managed it, 007.”  Beneath the flustered look, however, Bond caught interest in Q’s flushed face.  Odd how it had taken capture and torture by Silva to get Q past his phobia of carnal interests.  That nearly set off Bond’s laughter again, and he put a tight rein on it by instead batting one eye in a wink.  

He toned down his playfulness by adding more congenially, “Well, there’s only so much sexual interest I can show after the day I’ve had, but I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Q scoffed, but finally leaned back in again.  This time, his tousled head found Bond’s shoulder, totally heedless of dried blood by now.  Bond couldn’t see his face very well from this angle, looking down at the top of his head and nose, but he could clearly hear the softer comment, “The great 007.  Seducer of women, now playing with kid gloves with his damaged Quartermaster.  You could have just said that you wanted to go to bed with me.”

“I do,” Bond admitted, and accepted the inevitability of Q flinching and tightening up like wound-up spring in his grasp.  The Quartermaster hadn’t recovered completely after all, but he'd expected as much.  Undeterred, Bond continued in a low and sincere voice, shifting his right hand so that now it was his fingers playing with Q’s, idly caressing the long digits with something between polite interest and gentle worship.  “But even if this weren’t the completely wrong time and place, I prefer your trust over a quick fuck.”

Slowly, carefully, the Technopath relaxed, his held breath subtly warming Bond’s shirt as it left the smaller man’s lips.  “Thank you, 007.”

“Nothing to thank me for, Q.  Will you just bloody go to sleep now?  Or whatever it is you plan to do?” he huffed, stretching his legs out in front of him and resisting the urge to moan happily as none of the muscles twinged - the muscles Silva had all but pulverized seemed to be finally mended.  

But it seemed that Q was already doing just that: either he’d turned the impressive weapon of his concentration inwards, or he’d drifted off now that some semblance of safety had been wrapped around him.  Bond could hardly believe it was the latter, since they were still in enemy hands, but Q had seemed too weak and strained to possibly stay awake…

Pushing aside caution, Bond gently shifted his grip on Q’s hand - which had remained within the lee of his palm - so that he could stroke two reverent fingers down the tendons from Q’s knuckles to his wrist.  In response, Q pulled in a deeper breath than before, but let it out as a slow sigh.  The action of a fitful sleeper rather than a fearful waking one.  As much as Bond felt guilty about taking advantage of that obliviousness, he felt a rush of warmth fill his chest at the knowledge that he could now hold the Quartermaster without having to tiptoe around his phobias.  It was selfish, but 007 didn’t waste any time before securing his left arm more comfortably around Q’s waist until he could be sure that he wouldn’t be parted from the smaller man easily.

007 jumped when he felt and heard a breathy, distracted sort of amused snort against his shoulder, and then Q was reaching out to place one shy hand on Bond’s stomach, feeling abdominal muscles rise and relax with every breath.  After that, Q drifted off again to wherever his mind had been a moment ago, and Bond just sat and stared down at his dark tangle of curls.  

Somehow, held captive here with doom held over their heads like a descending axe - but with Q snugged up against his side as surely as he’d long since burrowed under his skin, breathing in tandem with him - Bond felt more at peace than he ever remembered feeling.

~^~

007’s eyes snapped open to slits the instant he heard something scratch the door.  The room was still lit, as Silva had left it, but Q was gone to the world and Bond had been dozing.  All 00-agents were superbly skilled at resting without succumbing completely to sleep, so while 007 had been conserving his energy with his eyes closed and his cheek pillowed against the top of Q’s head, he’d never truly ceased to be alert.  He didn’t move now, but every fiber of his body buzzed with readiness as he assessed the situation and waited for trouble.  Q hadn’t moved, and Bond counted time with the steady inhale and exhale of his breathing, and unconsciously petted a soothing circle against the crook of the Technopath’s elbow with a fingertip.  

The scratching continued for a second before being swallowed by silence.  It was at least half a minute before noise started up again, and this time it was the more familiar sound of a door being clumsily unlocked and then opened, and Bond began to slowly tense.  Outwardly, he still looked asleep, his powerful body lax, but Q mewled instinctively as he felt the frame around him begin to subtly shift.  Bond hushed him by repeating the pattern on his elbow, this time reverting back to the one-circle-clockwise, one-circle-counter.  The sigh under his chin made Bond’s heart skip a beat despite itself, and he broke his stillness long enough to press an absent kiss to the top of Q’s head.  

Finally the door opened, and an unfamiliar head popped through, hidden by a ratty white hoodie that shadowed the face.  Bond forced himself to continue breathing deeply, a picture of helpless unconsciousness, eyes only open imperceptibly to monitor the wiry male figure that slipped into the room, closing the door most of the way behind himself.  “007?”  Bond almost didn’t hear the call, it was said so quietly from the depths of the hood.  All in all, the fellow looked like he’d been living in those clothes awhile, a level of unkemptness that didn’t match up with Silva’s usual cronies.  The young man addressed him again, “James?”

This time, it was loud enough to nearly rouse Q, which bothered 007 more than he wanted to admit.  Preferring to face trouble head-on rather than wake the ill Quartermaster, Bond let his eyes snap open all the way, knowing full-well that the expression he was wearing would be foreboding enough without the added dried blood crusting his face like a mask.  He said nothing, but his eyes communicated with crystal clarity that he was ready and eager to leave his place by the wall at the slightest provocation.  The only reason he wasn’t going for the kill now was because some part of his callous heart hated the thought of disturbing the younger man by his side.

Unexpectedly, no need to fight was forthcoming.  Instead, the stranger lifted both hands, showing them open and empty as he stayed where he was.  “I’m not a threat, I’m a friend.  I’m…”  The voice tapered off, and the man’s head ducked uncomfortably before mumbling, “I’m Kaleb.”

That startled Bond enough that he twitched and nearly roused Q again.  This time he tightened his arm around Q’s torso to get him to rest easy again, and the exhausted Technopath obeyed.  Whether Q was truly asleep or fighting a cyber-battle in his head, he was drained enough that he apparently preferred to let Bond deal with the waking world.  “You’re a little bit tall for Kaleb,” Bond argued in a low, wary tone.  The joke was a bit thin, and carried an undercurrent of warning.

Feet - bare and without shoes - shuffled uneasily on the floor, and the stranger belatedly pulled his hood back a bit, enough to peak out with gentle brown eyes and a timid expression.  Even if he were lying about being Q’s canine companion, he didn’t look dangerous enough to be with Raoul Silva.  “The second time we met... I fell asleep with you, and he got mad that I didn’t ask permission.”  A pointed, almost foxlike chin was tipped towards Q even if those careful eyes never left Bond’s glacial blue ones.  “He was actually jealous, because who wants your best friend sleeping with a fellow you fancy?”

For a moment, there was silence as the story sank in - as Bond accepted the memory as accurate while also mulling over the details that were subtly more specific than he’d expected.  Still, he tested, challenging without raising his voice, “What’s Q’s real name?”

The answer was easy, and came with a shrug, “I doubt that even you know it, so it would only get me in trouble if I told you.  Please, can I see if he’s okay?”  In that moment, Bond could see Kaleb the dog instead of Kaleb the man, a canine whine transfusing the ‘please’ and canine loyalty in the newcomer’s every lean inch.  “Please,” he whined again, looking so desperate that it was almost heartbreaking, “I’ll swear to you on anything that I’m not a threat - I’ll do anything - if you’ll just let me see if he’s all right.”

Feelings like that were hard to fake, 007 knew from many missions' worth of experience.  He finally nodded and accepted that this truly was Kaleb, the man - Augment - who had been a dog since Silva’s rise to power.  Apparently now he’d found a reason to brave his human body again, despite the memories it held.  Bond had to prod: “Good to meet you without your fur coat.”

Kaleb had come swiftly closer to kneel next to Q’s legs, close enough to see that he was breathing and to reach out and just touch his knee with shaking fingers.  At Bond’s words, Kaleb’s brown eyes (a shade lighter than they’d been as a dog) lifted up and a shy smile tested its way across his mouth.  The look made it hard to think of him as Q’s dog... but rather easy to recall that he was Q’s ex.  “I... I was a dog, until I realized I couldn’t open the door without opposable thumbs.  It feels odd to be so tall.”

“I imagine,” Bond nodded, relaxing.  He kept half of his attention on the door, aware that Kaleb wasn’t the only person capable of dropping in on them unannounced.  Right now, the Shifter was watching Q with the adoration and worry of a dog finding their owner in a sick-bed, and Bond could relate to the feeling.  Alongside his worry, however, was an anger that hadn’t dimmed in the slightest through all of Silva’s torture.  “He’s got a virus in his system - not a bloody normal one, but the kind you put in computers.  Q said he was dealing with it.”

That actually seemed to relax Kaleb a bit, perhaps because it gave a face to his fears.  He nodded.  “Q’s gotten computer viruses before.”  At Bond’s surprised look, Kaleb scratched at the shell of his ear and admitted, “I’m not a specialist, but Q said it was a hazard of the job so long as he was linking himself up to computer systems.  I’ve never seen him this sick because of it, though.”  Another whine constricted the Augment’s throat as he reached forward to touch Q’s shoulder.  

“Can you get him out of here?” Bond had to ask, because it seemed that Kaleb was as helpless in the face of this virus as 007 was.  It was all up to Q in that department - Q, who hadn’t roused again despite the voices and touches drifting over him.  Bond felt his protective instincts surge impossibly higher.  

Kaleb growled, a low and frustrated sound that was at odds with his soft and gentle voice.  “I was only able to get in because no one is looking for a dog.  Most of the routes I took were even a bit tight for my dog form, so I can’t help.  I can get word back to MI6 about where you are, though.”

“Good.  Just don’t let anyone shoot you when they realize that you’re an Augment instead of a normal dog,” Bond advised, seeing how easily such a simple plan could go wrong.  Kaleb flushed, ducking his head but nodding.  

He peaked up from under his hood.  “May I ask... what happened to _you_?  I almost couldn’t track Q - I had to hope his scent was hidden under all of your blood I smelt.”

Bond grimaced; somehow, he kept forgetting about the blood.  He glanced significantly at the chair in the center of the room, and when Kaleb followed his gaze almost unwillingly, the wiry fellow paled and cowered.  “I understand,” was all the Shifter said, voice soft and haunted, and he turned away from the blood-spattered chair with a hard swallow.  “I think that MI6 will have a hard time arguing with me, regardless of whether I’m a dog or human,” he supplied, changing the subject back to the one before as he tugged down his hood finally, showing a head of mouse-brown hair that hung, tangled, to his ears and nape.  It also showed his neck, which was still miraculously bedecked in the collar Q had given him - the one with the camera used to map the tunnels under MI6.  Bond could have wept with joy at the sight of that little camera winking up at him, and even Kaleb tried on another small smile.  “I think that help may be on the way soon.”

~^~

Bond doubted he’d be able to help much in his own rescue, as Silva’s rigorous testing of his powers had drained 007 possibly more than healing Q had.  Q himself didn’t stir until he felt Bond’s chest shaking - the agent was trying to hold back roaring chuckles of triumph, but the effort of keeping quiet was nearly enough to crack his sanity again.  His grasp on sanity was still tenuous, but he thought that Q would lose his mind for a second when the Quartermaster opened his eyes irritably only to catch on another face: sharp-featured and vulpine, but also shy and gentle as a fawn, human-Kaleb stared back at him for just a second before the man glanced at Bond.  

“I should go back, just to make sure that someone looks at the camera images.”  He looked embarrassed and fidgety, uncomfortable in his usual skin after so long with paws and fur.  There was an odd, glimmering ripple that went over him from head to toe, as if he were made of millions of tiny coins being flipped over, and when the backs of those ‘coins’ were shown, they made up a black-and-white dog instead of a man.  Q was still staring at him this whole time, jaw agape and bleary eyes huge enough to fall out of his head behind his glasses.  Kaleb trotted forward just enough to lick the back of one of 007’s hands and worry one of Q’s knuckles with careful teeth before slipping out the door again, nosing it open where he’d left it slightly cracked.  

“Did I just…?  Was that really…?” Q began to stutter, his frame shaking as he pushed himself more upright as if to stand.  Q was, if anything, weaker and sicker than he’d been before, however, and was toppling even before Bond wrapped both arms around his waist to pull him back.  

“Shhhh, Q.  Everything’s all right now.  And yes,” Bond couldn’t help but smile, “that was your dog.  He was more pretty than you gave me the impression of.”

The teasing got Q distracted, head turning with a narrow-eyed glare.  His eyes didn’t want to focus, however, and he finally sighed and thumped his head forward into Bond’s chest.  “You great bugger, I’m going to thump you so hard if this is all just some virus-induced dream.”  

Bond spent the next half-hour - that was all the time it took for MI6 to reach them, thanks to Q’s camera and Kaleb finding them - convincing Q that he wasn’t dreaming, a surprisingly difficult endeavor when Q’s lucidity had a tendency to slip.  “Sorry... sorry,” Q would mumble as his eyes would flutter close or he’d give a feverish shiver, right in the middle of a sentence.  Finally he understood what was going on enough to snort a mirthless laugh and say, “Medical is going to have a hayday with us when we get back, aren’t they?”

It was right about then that the chaos started.  The time for sitting around was at an end then... Bond weighed the advantages of waiting around where MI6 could find them versus the disadvantages of waiting around where _Silva_ knew where to find them.   As soon as it became clear that MI6 was coming for Bond and Q (again), Silva would want to have a little chat with his prisoners.  “Can you walk?” Bond demanded, all business as he, too tried to stand.  

Q must have been thinking along the same wavelength as they heard fighting getting closer.  “I can make a decent effort.”  He struggled to his feet alongside the agent, and while Bond narrowed his eyes against a throbbing headache, Q swayed alarmingly and swore.  Bond caught him, and was surprised when Q clung to him in return, snarling under his breath, “I hate this.  Shit, my head isn’t even on straight, is it?”

Bond pulled him close on impulse and pressed a kiss into his hair.  “I assure you, it is,” he said simply, relishing the feel of Q’s skin under his fingers for a second more as he cradled the Quartermaster’s face between his hands.  When he let him go, Q’s eyes had stopped their odd dilating and shrinking to instead remain firmly and pleasantly blown - whether this was the virus’s fault or Bond’s they would have to discuss later.  “We’ve got to move, Q.  Can you?” he had to know.

“If you can-” Q took a few steps, staggered, but stayed upright.  He had let go of Bond but now looked back over his shoulder at him to finish the challenge, “-Then so can I. Are you coming, 007?”

It was time to play hide-and-seek with Silva and his men until MI6 found them.  

~^~

Q was definitely a wreck and Bond’s strength was flagging, but they were moving pretty well until someone appeared out of nowhere - or, to be more precise, the Teleporter that Bond had _nearly_ killed came out of nowhere, carrying a man with wavy black hair and a punch like a boxer.  Bond managed to sidestep the blow, then swerved around to attack the Teleporter instead.  In his book, she was overdue to die.  “Run, Q!” he barked, managing to startle the Teleporter before she could use her powers again.  Bond wasn’t exactly graceful at the moment, but he was still a wall of muscle, and used that to his advantage as he charged the woman and slammed her up against the wall with his weight.  When she tried to Teleport, he slammed a quick and dirty punch into her ribcage, aiming with enough precision that he felt some of the small, floating-ribs give way.  In less time than it took to say it, Bond used the seconds that bought him to grab her head and slam it into the wall.  

All of that took five seconds - all the respite he got from the black-haired fighter the Teleporter had brought with her.  Bond had time to glance over and see Q’s slender figure disappearing around the corner (‘ _Good, Q_...’) before hands were dragging him off the female Teleporter.  As easily as a machine switching gears, Bond gave up on killing her and instead focused all of his attention on his new foe.  Bond calculated that he could still kill someone fairly easily, even after the day he’d had yesterday…

He didn’t get the chance.  

With deceptive lightness, the boxer’s fingers were touching bare skin on James’s arm - a benign point of contact.  A second later, however, and Bond felt like he was falling backwards into his skull, and colors were washing over his vision.  

_Himself.  A child.  Nine years of age._

_The kids at school were always making fun of the timid girl who sat behind him, so he’d gotten sick of it.  Blood was running from his nose like a fountain, but that did bloody shitting nothing to stop him from balling up his scraped fists and entering the fray again.  His nose took hours to stop bleeding, and he had split knuckles under bandages for days - but he had detention for longer.  None of that mattered because he had the sweet taste of satisfaction on his tongue_ …

The scene whirled, changed, and it was like Bond couldn’t break free of the grip on his arm.  The grip on his mind.  

_A dark room.  Somehow, his mind was darker, as if some light have gone out in its depths where he maybe didn’t want to see any more…_

_"Welcome to the 00-division, James," came M’s tart voice from somewhere else in the shadows.  Her eyes were faint glints in the dark, and she looked as grim as he did.  A promotion to work in the shadows... he didn’t regret it now, but part of him had regretted it then.  Perhaps that part had died after his third kill…_

“Interesting memories you’ve got there, agent,” came a voice in the present-day world.  Finding himself on the floor and staring up at a grinning face framed by longish black hair, Bond tried not to wince at how the words sounded sharp and crystalline - like listening to a high-pitched whistle after being underwater for hours.  He didn’t get long to regain his equilibrium, however, as the smile turned into a petulant frown and the Telepath continued, “Let’s see if we can find something more current.  Bear with me - sometimes it takes a bit of slogging to hit the really good stuff.”  And suddenly the hands - now on either side of Bond’s head - ripped Bond’s consciousness off its moorings and tossed it back into the tumultuous past again.  

_Bond was in trouble.  This wasn’t exactly new, but he realized that this brand of trouble was different from any he’d face so far - he’d known it from the moment he’d opened his drugged eyes and seen the leer on the other man’s face.  The concrete floor was cold under him, and no matter how much muscle he’d put on since joining MI6, he couldn’t snap the ropes around his wrists and ankles._

_“If I’d known that all MI6 agents were as comely as you, I’d have lured one out here ages ago,” teased the gravely voice, as a hand reached down to stroke Bond’s face.  He felt again the disgust and bolt of fear, racing like chain-lightning through him even as he jerked his head away.  The world tilted and swayed, fading to watercolor in places and making it impossible to tell what he’d been drugged with - although it was clear that whatever it was, it wasn’t anywhere close to leaving his system yet.  The young 00-agent on the floor pushed the fear back like he did with everything else, and bared his teeth._

_The man standing over him just chuckled, beginning to undo his belt-buckle.  “Snarl all you like, pup.  I’m barely even getting started, and I’ve got lots of time to get answers out of you before anyone will start to come looking.”  The belt fell away, and 007 gritted his teeth to keep his breathing steady.  When he’d entered the 00-division, he’d learned that there were many worse alternatives to death - and this had been one of them._  

_He also knew that training was a bloody poor shadow compared to reality._

The memory went on, and Bond relived one of the least pleasurable experiences of his life.  He’d been trapped, taken down, disarmed, and drugged.  He’d gone from being a killing machine to more helpless than he’d been as a child, teaching him a lesson on how easily great men could fall.  He’d also been taught a lesson on how just how _far_ they could fall.

Then he’d taught his enemy a lesson on how viciously they could get back up again.  

“You know, I’m impressed, 007,” the black-haired man’s voice cracked like glass in Bond’s consciousness, sharp and unpleasant yet again as memories faded to be replaced by ice-cold reality.  It was like being hit by a bucket of ice-water, and Bond was already gasping and quivering with shock from what he’d just relived.  The Telepath went on congenially, “All that, and you still didn’t give up any information.  I’m also quite a connoisseur of gore in other people’s memories, and I have to admit, you sure paid that fellow back ruthlessly.  MI6 train you to do that?  Never mind-”  The man - who had to be Elias Winter, Silva’s pet mind-reader - reached for Bond’s head again, tossing a leg over Bond’s hip to purposefully straddle him.  It was both a show of how unafraid he was of the 00-agent, and a not-so-subtle reminder of the memory he’d just dragged kicking and screaming into the forefront of Bond’s mind.  “-I’ll answer that question myself.  That always works better.”  

Before Elias could get into his head again - and Bond really couldn’t stop him, not after he’d had the wind taken out of him by that last memory - there was an obsidian-sharp and shale-brittle voice barking from behind the mindreader, “Stop it!”  

Elias didn’t turn at the sound of Q’s voice, but he did sit up, expression turning cruelly contemplative.  “Ah, the very reason I was called in.  Q, I presume?  Have a last name, by chance?  Ah, don’t answer that,  I prefer to find it on my own.  Just let me finish here.”  His hand reached out for Bond’s head again, already knowing that the previous mental attacks had the agent swooning.  Bond could only lie on the floor, body feeling like lead and mind feeling like it had had a bomb go off in it, wondering how many times a person could be made helpless in twenty-four hours before they just gave up.  

When Q pushed aside common-sense (not to mention the fact that he was sick and that Bond had told him to _get out of here_ ) and charged Elias Winter’s unprotected back, the mind-reader was ready.  His hands never touched Bond but instead surged to catch Q as the mindreader whirled around, meeting Q’s charge head-on.  It was a truly pitiable attack anyway, with Q barely capable of fighting off a kitten or walking in a straight line in his condition.  Elias was on his feet and propelling Q back by his arms in seconds, until Q’s fragile-looking frame hit the wall.  He was all but stepping on the Teleporter, who hadn’t gotten up after Bond had beaten her, and Q’s eyes got huge as Elias smirked and pinned the Quartermaster’s head to the wall with a palm flush to his forehead.  

Being attacked by a Visceral and a Telepath all in one day had left Bond wanting to never get up off the floor, but the sound of Q’s agony-choked cry would have been enough to bring him back to life even if he were dead.  Bond rolled drunkenly onto his stomach, finding his hands and knees.  “Q!”  

But when he got to his feet and faced Elias and Q, it was to see the mindreader drop his hand, stagger, and then fall to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.  His eyes stared up and back at Bond sightlessly as if to ask, ‘ _What did I do wrong_?’

Panting heavily and splaying his hands behind him on the wall for balance, Q surveyed the dead man with cold, scared eyes.  The fear dissipated as he looked up to see Bond, though.  “Kill-codes, remember?  When I realized this was Elias, I came back to give him what he wanted.”  Q caught his breath a bit more, sublimating the shock of whatever Elias had managed to do before the trap in Q’s head had done its work.  When Q looked between Bond and the dead mindreader, some of the protectiveness that Bond felt for Q was reflected back in kind.  Q finished his thought coldly, “And what he deserved.”

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now you're learning a bit of backstory to Bond, of all people! This is not canon at all, but if you've been noticing in previous chapters (especially at the beginning), 007 has occasionally said/thought some rather ambiguous things in regards to understanding what Q is going through. 
> 
> Anyway *throws hands in the air* Character building! I do it at random and for no foreseeable reason (*u*)


	20. Easing into Synchrony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter that includes: a shower scene (with a naked 007), 1 and 1/2 kisses (depending on how you feel like counting), Bond making threats (for the greater good), and Q acting odd in all the right ways but for questionable reasons. 
> 
> Confused enough yet? (~.^) My summaries can be as vague as my titles...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I must apologize for going so long without posting - I'm facing down the last few weeks of school for this semester, and it's killing me :P I cannot promise to update regularly until it clears up! Hopefully this chapter will stand in as an apology...
> 
> Hopefully you will enjoy how Bond and Q are slowly 'easing into synchrony' ;)

~^~

Today was an interesting day.  Medical had been given two Augments, neither of which they could actually help in any way, and M had been given a new Augment that had apparently been in MI6 for weeks, but had been hiding in dog’s-clothing.  While M tried to decide what to do with a Shifter in her ranks, Medical tried to decide what to do with a Technopath clearly sick with a mechanical ailment and a Deathless who looked like death warmed over but lacked any actual injuries.  In the end, M decided to leave the problem of Kaleb for another day, Q-branch got the Quartermaster, and the Psych department got Bond, although after taking one look at him covered literally head-to-toe in blood, they told him to wait until after he showered to go have a psychological break-down. Bond had given them a purely unsettling grin (without ever actually agreeing to their demands), and turned on his heel to find a shower and some new clothes.  

Whether he would actually go back to Psych was debatable.  This definitely rated high on the list of times where he possibly _needed_ a psychological evaluation, though: he could feel the way that his body had equilibrated to pain in a new and unnatural way, as if anything short of an evisceration were just a caress, and there was still madness lurking at the back of his mind.  Not to mention the demons that Elias Winter had raised.  Standing under the hot stream from one of the communal shower-heads in the lower levels of MI6 - adequately abandoned at this time of night - 007 braced his hands against the wall and bowed his head, trying to rebury the memories that had been dragged up to the forefront of his mind.  He’d had years to dull and forget the sharp edges, but now it was like packing away broken glass with his  bare hands.  

Blood and water sluiced off him, trailing down the ridges between tensed muscles, reddening all the water at his feet as it circled down the drain.  He tilted his head, letting the spray of water hit his ear where he could feel blood crusted all the way down his ear canal; the deafening rush of the water felt nice as it momentarily blocked everything else out and forcibly scoured clean the right side of his neck and face.  

“Bond-!  Oh.”  Q’s voice turned acutely embarrassed at the end as he stepped past the partition to look in on the wall of showers with their one occupant, feet stumbling to an abrupt halt as if he’d hit an invisible wall or stepped down on super-glue.  Q was looking a bit better, if still a bit flushed... a _lot_ flushed, now that he was staring at Bond wearing nothing but a coating of blood-tinted water.  

Bond had just barely heard the light, familiar footsteps coming at the last minute, and only bothered to turn his head now.  One of the agent’s eyebrows arched, as if to ask what Q had been expecting to see if not a naked 00-agent, when he’d come into the bathrooms to hear the sound of water running.  “Want something, Q?”  That stumped the Quartermaster, even though there was no innuendo hidden in 007’s tone - he didn’t have the energy.  Q was still doing a remarkable imitation of a deer caught in the headlights, or perhaps a stunned fish, eyes staring and mouth opening and closing without sound.  Bond took a bit of mercy on him, turning to lean one shoulder against the wall and cross his arms over his chest; the spray fell across his other shoulder and just skated over the top of his head.  There was no real attempt at modesty, and the new pose didn’t so much hide anything as make it a little less obvious.  

Like a computer re-booting, Q gave a few more blinks before finally dropping his eyes to his toes and stammering, “I-I’m sorry.  I didn’t... er... sorry.”  After the embarrassed apologies ended, however, Q didn’t leave, which sharpened Bond’s curiosity a bit - especially when the Quartermaster lifted his eyes again.  His voice was a little bit calmer and a little bit clearer as he met Bond’s gaze and said, “I was actually wondering... if you’d had dinner.”

 _This_ was a different turn…  Bond shifted slightly, bending his head briefly to duck it entirely under the water, wanting to get the last stickiness of blood out that was matting it.  When he leaned clear again, shaking water from his eyes and blinking as it dripped off his lashes, he asked bluntly, “Shouldn’t you be in Q-branch recovering?  You had a virus, last I asked.”

“I’m working on it as we speak,” Q gave a little shrug, also doing an admirable job of keeping his eyes on Bond’s face, although they drifted from time to time.  “I coded up a counter for the virus, so-to-speak.  I’m not quite myself yet, but it’s just a stopgap measure - I’ve got Q-branch working on finding a better solution in the meanwhile.”

Bond decided that there was no point in pressing for more of an explanation, because it was already painfully obvious that Q was dumbing it down for him.  That should have been irritating, but it wasn’t.  The complete answer was probably full of biomechanical algorithms and so much medical-/cyber-jargon that his head would start spinning.  So 007 just nodded and moved on to his next question, “How did you find me down here?”

Q coughed into his hand, looking embarrassed.  “I may or may not have used the security cameras to track you.”  When Bond started snickering at him, Q dared to raise his eyes in a half-hearted glare and defend, “It’s habit!  Even if I weren’t Technopath, I’m used to taking advantage of any means necessary to keep track of you bloody double-o’s!  You’re easier to lose track of than a second sock in a washing machine!”

Now Bond was genuinely amused, and for the first time since being ripped apart by Silva (whom MI6 was still chasing in the aftermath of Q and 007’s retrieval), his humor didn’t feel like it had an edge of insanity on it.  Hearing Q sniping felt so normal and rational and natural that he felt himself relaxing, even as he stepped fully under the running water again, feeling the heat sink into his skin.  Belatedly, he answered Q’s question, toying idly with the knowledge that Q was probably even now staring at his turned back and everything that entailed, “Medical forced energy-bars on me just like they did you, but I doubt that counts as eating.”

“Good, good,” Q accepted that, sounding nervous but determined, “Then, after…?  After you’re done here... would you wish to…?  That is, would you be…?”  Q sighed, frustrated with himself, and then blurted out, “Will you eat with me?”

Bond tilted a look back over his shoulder, even though he was still blinking water from his eyes, and flashed his most charming smile a beat later.  “I’d be delighted, Quartermaster.”

He saw as Q seemed to deflate and relax, the smile that flickered across his mouth looking more sincere than a lot he’d been giving lately.  “All right then, I’ll…”  He awkwardly pointed behind him, back on the other side of the divider while he continued to more-or-less stare at Bond.  “I’ll just wait out there.  With your clothes.”  Q’s eyes definitely did a once-over of 007’s athletic frame, unable to help it.  “For when you’re done.”  

“If you knew that my clothes were there and I wasn’t, and the water was running,” Bond posed the question even as he went back to washing, fully comfortable with letting Q enjoy the show, “then what exactly did you expect to find when you walked in here?”

Bond never got to find out the answer to that, because as he lifted his arms to scrub at his neck, Q gave a soft little gasp behind him, and then the sounds of shoes squeaking on wet tile mixed with the susurrus of falling water as the Quartermaster approached - came right up to Bond’s side, in fact, before the 00-agent could completely comprehend what was happening.  For a second, he could hardly even believe this was _Q_ , who got nervous if someone so much as made sexual insinuations around him but who was now encroaching on 007’s personal space without hesitation.  

Oblivious to the water that began to speckle his clothing, Q promptly reached out a hand until it touched Bond’s ribcage - under his left arm, where the Teleporter had stabbed and nearly killed him, and where there was now a pink line of scar-tissue.  Q made a clearly distressed sound in his throat, and in that minute, the professional, embarrassed Quartermaster was gone, replaced instead by Q, the man who had raged and screamed when Bond was being tortured.  “Is your healing ability not recovered?  Did Silva do something permanent to the wound?  Why is this not healing?” questions began to pour out of Q’s mouth even as he stepped closer, splaying shaking fingers next to the scar as if he wanted to wash it away in the running water.  Pain and stark fear filled his hazel eyes even as droplets of water hit his glasses and streak swiftly down them, tears on glass.  

As if dealing with a flighty bird instead of a perfectly capable Quartermaster, Bond turned slightly and slowly, lowering his arms until he just touched Q’s extended forearm, gripping it carefully in one strong hand.  Q was already getting wet, so the added dampness from Bond’s hold didn’t phase him, although Q looked up as 007 shifted slightly.  Bond was just moving to block the worst of the water from the showerhead before going still again, though.  Perhaps Q had expected to be pushed away, but Bond simply maintained his light grip on Q’s arm and let the Quartermaster’s fingers press against the warm skin over his ribs.  “It’s healed, Q,” he reassured, seeing the distress clearly in the smaller man’s wide eyes.  In a soft rumble that easily traversed the minute distance between them, Bond explained, “The things that almost kill me leave a mark.  See?”  He bobbed his chin towards his shoulder, where the old bullet wound from Moneypenny had also left a permanent scar upon his skin.  

Q was so close, Bond could see the water beading on his dark eyelashes as the Quartermaster dropped his eyes from Bond’s calm face to the circular scar riding high on his chest.  Bond let his arm go as Q lifted his hand again, this time touching the second scar with the barest brush of skin on skin; 007 had to let out a breath slowly to try and hold down the arousal that was building like a wave of heat beneath his skin.  The touch was like a moth - a butterfly kiss - a tiny point where an electrical circuit was completed, and somehow it was more erotic than the deepest kiss.  

Unable to help himself, Bond leaned forward the last few inches he needed to and sealed his lips gently against the corner of Q’s mouth.  If there were repercussions for this later, he’d blame it on the drama and stress of the mission, or on the psychological strain of being tortured and barely surviving.  Right now, all he cared about was the feeling of skin beneath his lips and the soft cascade of breath that batted his cheek, the hot air mixing with the sensation of steam and tumbling water that was kneading his broad shoulders from behind.   

With more self-control than he’d thought he had, Bond pulled back without making the kiss into anything more.  His eyes had never closed, forever watching Q’s face, seeing surprise there but surreptitiously looking for something closer to panic or outrage.  007 backed off enough that they weren’t touching, but the _want_ coiled in his gut didn’t let him withdraw more, leaving the two of them hovering like planets just out of alignment, unsure whether they’d crash into each other or fly apart in the next second.  

It was the latter, as Q overcame his shock at the contact a moment later and leapt away.  Bond contained his disappointment with effort - more effort than it had taken not to deepen the kiss, in fact, and that effort had been monumental.  All James had wanted to do in that second was to slide his mouth incrementally to the left, until he was no longer kissing the corner of Q’s mouth but pressing right against the bow of his lips, testing the connection with his tongue and then his teeth as he wordlessly cajoled that mouth to open up to him.  Now James put the colorful fantasies aside, sighing instead as he once again turned back into the water, his broad back to the other man so that he wouldn’t embarrass either of them by showing just how turned-on he was by just one kiss.  Then again, ‘just one kiss’ with Q was quite an achievement, even if it hadn’t been lasting.  

He expected that to be the end of it, and probably the dinner invitation withdrawn as well, and repressed a flare of temper at himself for pushing the Quartermaster.  Taking liberties with touching his person was one thing when both people were fully clothed, but with Bond gloriously and uninhibitedly naked, he’d definitely crossed a few lines of decorum.  Honestly, even if he hadn’t been dealing with someone with a history of sexual abuse, this would have been considered quite a scandalous exercise in pushing boundaries.  

“Bond?”  Q’s voice startled him out of his thoughts, because apparently the Quartermaster had only retreated to the edge of the room again.  007 turned a surprised look over his shoulder, frowning in bemusement as Q shifted awkwardly from foot-to-foot and kept his eyes focused on his fingertips, which were picking at his sleeve as if the wet handprint Bond had left at the elbow were suddenly fascinating.  Still, the Quartermaster forged boldly onward, “Don’t forget that you agreed to dinner.  We’ll have to eat in your room.  Kaleb is sleeping in mine - as a human, unexpectedly.”  

Before Bond could either agree, disagree, or comment in general, Q finished his escape, flitting out of sight completely like an autumn leave that finally couldn’t hold onto the branch any longer against the prevailing wind.  This left a rather happily surprised 00-agent standing under the shower-spray behind him.  

~^~

When Bond finished ridding himself of dried blood and the feel of being under someone else’s hands (Silva’s hands, not Q’s - Q’s hands had been quite enjoyable as they’d danced across his skin), Q was nowhere in evidence.  The 00-agent took that philosophically, figuring that at least Q hadn’t screamed or gotten angry at him.  The kiss still tasted good on his lips, as if he’d pressed his mouth against some fine dessert, leaving a residue of sweetness on his lips that lingered.  There was a note waiting on his folded pile of clean clothes, obviously scribbled in haste on the back of a random piece of paper Q had had in his pocket: ‘ _Don’t apologize.  Not angry_ ,’ it read, which didn’t really tell Bond much at all, except that Q hadn’t been able to think up anything more to say on the matter as yet.  Optimistically, it sounded like Q hadn’t minded the kiss so much, which had Bond smirking to himself with far more pride than the moment warranted.  Pulling on dark-wash jeans and a paler blue button-down, 007 shook his head and simply decided that he’d never stop being confused and surprised by Q.  

Since it sounded like Kaleb was getting used to being human again (hopefully not giving Q a heart-attack with his transformation in the process), Bond detoured on his way to his rooms in the Tunnels, heading towards Q’s instead.  As eager as he was to see Q again after the debacle in the showers, he found that he was slightly fond of Q’s sometimes-dog-shaped ex - and, if nothing else, he owed the man.  007 was unsurprised to see two agents guarding the door, no doubt ordered to ensure that the newly-discovered Augment within stayed put and didn’t cause trouble.  

Well…  Bond grinned, feeling surprisingly mischievous for a man who had just been tortured, and walked right up to the guards with a disturbing bounce to his step.  

Five minutes later, he finally prowled back to his own quarters, still with a smug half-smiled tucked into the corner of his mouth.  He eyed the open door, which had been locked, last he knew.  “Security means nothing to you Technopaths, does it?” he asked drolly, seeing Q sitting at the one small table in the room with one of Bond’s old paperback books in his hands.  Q snapped the book shut, looking more embarrassed to be caught reading than breaking into a 00-agent’s room.

Q regained his composure quickly, however, and was returned the book to its place under Bond’s cot as if doing something perfectly normal.  “You say that as if you’ve known more than one Technopath.  Should I be jealous?”

It was so strange for Q to actually act like they were any sort of couple that Bond froze a moment, half-way through closing the door behind him.  It would be a lie to say he didn’t feel a pleased sensation burn through his chest like liquor.  “Not at all.  People so rarely break into my quarters that I feel quite flattered, actually,” Bond replied with smooth charm.  His eyes alit on two take-out containers on the table, smelling of tomato and garlic but nothing identifying on the styrofoam containers.  “What’s to eat?” he asked without any more preamble, curiosity piqued and mood still high from the little bit of chaos he’d sown outside of Q and Kaleb’s quarters.  

“I’m not actually sure,” Q admitted, settling in the one chair in the room and prodding at one box as Bond made use of the cot as a second chair.  The dining arrangements were far from fabulous, but Q looked... comfortable... in a way he hadn’t been before now, and that smoothed out any feelings of inadequacy on Bond’s part.  Besides, ever since MI6 had been forced to house its own agents in the Tunnels, everyone had been learning to make do with small rooms and few amenities.  Q opened one container to reveal pasta with sauce and meatballs, and the smile on his face was very nearly triumphant, lighting up his eyes behind his glasses in a way that made Bond smile as well.  “I can’t go out to pick up anything, obviously, so since Kaleb is back to being human again, he offered.  Actually, it was a bit of a deal to keep me from smothering him, I think,” Q admitted with a slight flush, opening up a packet of plastic silverware somewhat moodily, “Bloody git decides to finally walk on two legs again, and then seems surprised when his old friend wants to talk his ear off about it.  Kaleb said that he’d get us food if I’d let him take a nap, and we’d have a long chat later.  Ergo-”  Q gestured to the Italian takeout.  “-Food on demand!  All it took was a Augment finally turning back into a human again.”  

Bond couldn’t help the rolling chuckle that started in his chest and escaped past his smirk.  He’d been a bit wary, after that little scene in the shower, about how Q would act around him, so this cheeky, dry joshing was the last thing that he’d expected.  Actually, there was something distinctly different about Q, and Bond felt as though he was missing something.  Whatever it was, he approved, because Q then got up from his chair to circle around the little table, opening the other container - garlic bread, liberally spread with melted cheese.  All that Bond cared for was that Q was now standing within touching-distance, dressed in simple slacks and a button-down not unlike Bond’s (except less fitted, because Q didn’t much care about his appearance so long as nothing inappropriate was showing), since his last ensemble had gotten wet.  Bond was almost too distracted just watching Q from up-close to notice the Quartermaster talking to him.  

“-Are a little late,” he caught the end of the sentence, accompanied by a questioning frown and bespectacled eyes turned his way, “Something keep you?”

Memories of his little detour caused a full-fledged smirk to stretch across Bond’s face, a look that was so impish that Q was already leaning on the table as if bracing himself.  “I actually went to check in on Kaleb - did you know that there are agents guarding him?”

Q didn’t seem surprised, but at the too-cheery look on Bond’s face, his expression grew resigned - it didn’t take a genius to know that Bond had caused trouble.  The Technopath sat down on the bed beside Bond with a thump, putting his forehead in his hands as he ground out, “Oh, god, what did you do?”

Biting his lip to keep from laughing, Bond pretended to consider.  “I may or may not have... insinuated... that I was friends with the Augment behind the door.”

“Oh?  That all you said?” Q snorted, lifting his head enough to prop his chin on his folded fingers.  He had a jaded eyebrow lifted, and now James had to use all of his skills to plaster an innocent look on his face.  

“I might also have said that if they made Kaleb’s life difficult, I’d make them quadriplegics.”  

Q’s groan tripled to a sound like he just might die, and he buried his face in his hands again while Bond smiled proudly and unrepentantly.  The only thing more fun than kissing the Quartermaster, he was certain, was teasing him like this.  “And this is why M has no problem with me keeping tabs on you at all times - you’re left unwatched for fifteen minutes, and you start threatening to cripple innocent people.”

“Closer to seven minutes, actually.  Eight of that fifteen was spent getting the rest of the blood off myself,” Bond defended distractedly, “And it’s a stretch to call those agents innocent.  I know them.  Not that innocent.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Q retorted to Bond dryly.  Instead of being offended, Bond’s mouth curled up at one side to accept the irony of it.  He didn’t even bother to deny it, and when he looked back at Q again, the agent’s blue eyes were instead smug and proud.  Q made to swat at him, but 00-agent reflexes were nothing to scoff at, and Bond caught Q’s slender wrist before his hand made contact.  “Bloody 00-agents,” Q huffed, although he made no move to free his hand, “Can’t even let a Quartermaster get a decent blow in.  That’s just unfair, you know, especially since we both know that it would hardly phase you anyway.”  

“If you’re so disgruntled,” Bond gave in on a whim, intrigued by the arm that was resting ungrudgingly in his grip - a fairly fragile appendage of slim bones and relaxed tendons, “then try again.  I won’t stop you.”  Bond smiled to reveal that he was making light of this, although his eyes remained sincere even as he let his tone slide into a joking octave, “Come on, Quartermaster - reap your just rewards.”  Letting go of Q, Bond folded his own arms snugly to prove that he didn’t intend to move or block.  

Q was looking at him with an unreadable expression, something curious in his face.  “The mighty 007,” he continued the joke, but instead of being grand like Bond’s, it was soft, “finally bowing to the superior powers of his Quartermaster?”

Bond snorted, still amused.  “I never denied that you’re the one with a superior intellect.  I might concede a few other points of superiority.  Maybe.”  He settled back to wait and see what Q would do, most of him expecting a half-hearted swat to his shoulder - if Q really had some pent-up temper over all the times Bond had destroyed his tech, maybe it would even sting a bit.  Q definitely had a point, though, that nothing short of shooting him would actually faze the blonde 00-agent.  After enduring Silva’s Visceral powers, that was even more true, and Bond watched with keen eyes and a teasing smirk as Q’s hand twitched, then shifted.  

When Q’s hand lifted, it was a slow movement, and ultimately Q’s fingers came to rest on Bond’s jaw, a feather-light touch that had Bond mentally scrambling to try and predict what Q was doing.  Instead of giving Bond time to catch up, however, Q took in a steadying breath, and then leaned forward, and Bond got a better taste of Q’s mouth as their lips were driven together.  Bond was so startled that he didn’t actually do anything, although his arms unfolded like a natural reflex, ready to move but hesitant to touch.  Q’s hand was shaking where it touched the side of his face, and even though Q tasted like something he’d been missing for a long time, it was Bond to pushed the Quartermaster back.  Bond also gripped Q’s chin as he did so, forcing their eyes to meet as he ignored the flush rising up Q’s face to instead focus on his eyes.  “What’s going on, Q?” Bond demanded in a no-nonsense tone.  

To give credit where it was due, Q didn’t try and dodge the question, or ask if Bond had suddenly lost his interest in kissing his flighty Quartermaster. Instead, Q released a sigh, and gave in to say solemnly, “Telepaths like Elias Winter work two ways: they can take memories, and they can give them.”

Bond froze entirely.  He wasn’t entirely sure what Q meant by that, but something was niggling at the back of his mind warningly, and he could read something on Q’s face - something in his eyes, something in his manner - that made his hackles rise preemptively.  He released Q’s chin as the Quartermaster sat but, but remained in close proximity.  “Explain,” Bond commanded shortly, his voice hard with wariness.  

Looking away - down at his lap, at his hands again as they twisted together - Q murmured, “I’d really rather not.”

“Not an option.”

“I know,” Q sighed dejectedly, and Bond noticed that Q’s thumb was tracing a familiar pattern on his other fingers: one circle clockwise, one circle back.  “I just want you to know... that I don’t pity you.”

“That’s a bloody horrible way to start any conversation with me.”

“Oh, believe me,” Q chuckled mirthlessly, the sound as cold in his mouth as the smile was on his face, “it gets worse.  Before Elias went hunting my head for valuable information on MI6, he decided to indulge himself.  That included... sharing.”

“One of his memories?” Bond hazarded, but he knew he was wrong even before Q froze, hands clenching around one another.  

Softly, looking away, Q corrected, “Yours.”

And suddenly Bond knew what he was talking about.  

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies all over again... this time for the cliffhanger XP Hopefully most of you can guess what is going on, and will not be heartbroken if the next chapter takes awhile to upload. 
> 
> Am I making up excuses for Q and Bond to kiss more in the future? Yes. I'm a shallow being...


	21. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q now knows a bit more about Bond's past than Bond would ever want him to...so how does Bond take this? 
> 
> Probably better than expected. 
> 
>  
> 
> Or the chapter in which a shared, painful past event leads to Q requesting something unexpected of Bond, and of course the agent ultimately gives in (~.^)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should go without saying that I am very, very sorry for the long gap between posting - I refuse to abandon a fic that already had so many chapters, and hope that this chapter will be an acceptable apology for the wait!

~^~

“You have to tell me, Bond,” Q’s eyes implored even as he kept his posture and the rest of himself calm - no doubt employing tricks he’d learned thus far as Quartermaster of MI6, on how to deal with an unsettled 00-agent.  Bond was already tense next to him, never a good thing with a man who had more kills to his name than birthdays.  “Was that memory yours?  Was it yours, or was I looking through someone else’s eyes?”

Q had yet to detail exactly what Elias Winter had forced him to see, so Bond held out hope that something less devastating and scarring had been pushed into Q’s head.  No memory of Bond’s was for the faint of heart, so the chances of Q seeing something ugly from the inside of his agent’s head was sickeningly high.  “What did you see?” Bond forced himself to ask.  His voice grated as if he’d dragged it through glass again - it sounded like he was back in Silva’s chair, throw raw from screaming.  He tamped down on the thought and clenched his teeth a little.  

Eyes never leaving Bond’s, Q paused carefully, but murmured without embarrassment, “Something like what happened to me.”

Bond’s eyes tightened around the edges.  Ah.  That memory then.  He’d guessed as much, but had been wishing like hell that that wasn’t the case.  Bond looked away, eyes like flint and heart feeling a lot like crumbling stone.  

“James.”  Q’s voice was gently trying to pull him back, although he was smart enough not to touch him for fear of setting him off like a loaded weapon, which was an accurate analogy right now.  “See, this is why I didn’t want to talk about this,” Q went on with the first signs of light exasperation as he, too, turned away.  Bond heard the familiar sound of Q snorting through his nose, but then the stubborn little Technopath went on, “I already told you that I don’t pity you - pity’s got no place with you or me.  Sympathy, yes, because believe me, I understand most everything that went on in that memory.”

“You shouldn’t have had to relive it,” Bond stated flatly.  

He felt as much as saw the movement of Q’s head snapping back to him.  “And you should have?” was the sardonic reply.  

Now it was Bond’s turn to sigh, a tight gust of air full of uncomfortable annoyance over the fact that he honestly had no idea how to respond to all of this.  The only thing he knew for sure what that he never wanted to meet another Telepath like Winter again in his life, much less have on throw his memories around like party favors.  “Why the kiss then?” he changed subjects, deviating enough to avoid talking about his past any more than necessary, “You’ve jumped every time anyone has come near you-”

“Except with you.”  Q lifted one finger as if marking that point poignantly in the air.  

Bond just shot him a look and went on more firmly, “-And you run when _I_ kiss you.”

“To be fair, you were entirely naked and in the shower, and most of the blood on you wasn’t washed off yet.  You...make an intimidating impression.”

Turning back to face Q more squarely, one eyebrow raised, Bond noted the slight flush that had come to Q’s cheeks, and the fact that his eyes were perfectly candid behind his glasses.  He wasn’t avoiding the topic, but he wasn’t sugar-coating it either.  “Still,” Bond returned to his first question, “Why?”

There was a long pause.  Q held Bond’s eyes as long as possible, hazel on stern blue, and then looked down to trace a pattern into the rumpled bed-sheets.  Their food was growing cold next to them.  “You and I share a common experience - common nightmare.  But you’ve moved past it, and I just want to learn to heal like you did.  I don’t want to be this anymore.”  He gestured vaguely and a little wildly at himself, his calmness cracking as 007 watched.  “Scared, jumpy, distrustful, incapable of doing the basic loving things that people do when they find one another passingly attractive.  Although, for the record, I find you more than passingly attractive.”

As tempting as it was to chuckle as Q’s abrupt forthrightness about what he felt towards Bond, the agent kept himself focused, instead concentrating on the bit about healing.  “Q, you don’t want to heal like I have,” he said resignedly.  

“At this moment, I’d settle for any kind of healing.”

“No, you wouldn’t.  You think I’ve healed?  I haven’t,” Bond shot the idea down with the same brutality that he took down a target - or shut down his heart when missions hit too close to home.  “I’ve hidden it all in scar tissue.  I’m scared - I just hide it by being angry or drinking myself into oblivion.  Anyone in MI6 knows that I’m as distrustful as fuck, and I think _any_ agent is ‘jumpy’.  We just call it ‘alert’ nowadays and don’t look into the PTSD behind it.  As for love…”  His ranting finally died away, losing its fire as he floundered, unsure how to say what he wanted to on the last topic.  He finally gave in and offered Q a sad, defeated look, a bitter excuse for a smile stretching his mouth ironically.  “Maybe you shouldn’t be taking lessons from me in that, either.”

“Hmm,” Q said, as if he’d give in to the facts  being poured over him, but his eyes were still too stubborn and Bond knew it.  Q didn’t sound half as convinced as Bond wanted him to be.  Tone dry and just challenging enough to sting, Q tossed out the question, “And that kiss an hour ago?”

“Reflex,” Bond growled callously, knowing it was a lie.  He was disturbed by how much it was a lie.  

“That doesn’t explain why you could handle it and I couldn’t.  You must have healed somewhat, if you can look at people and be that close.  I seem to cower and run away.”  Q’s detached self-assessment was nearly as brutal as Bond’s lie, and by the look in Q’s gaze, he knew it - he was surgically cutting back where Bond had sliced at him.  This was not going well…  “So, fine, we’ll say that you’re as emotionally crippled as any other 00-agent around here - but I still want to learn how you have come as far as you have, because from where I sit…”  The Quartermaster’s strength crumbled a bit, and the spine he’d been holding ramrod straight bent.  It took a lot of effort to argue with 007, especially on such a visceral, lacerating topic, and Q was losing the heart for it.  He finished his sentence almost to himself, “...It looks nearly impossible to ever touch another person again.”

Bond had been ready to launch into another tirade about the unsafe coping techniques of 00-agents, but seeing how defeated Q looked, he couldn’t do it.  Cursing himself for being so easily swayed by this man, Bond gave up on arguing and instead slid a hand forward.  He made sure that Q could see it coming, and that it encroached only slowly on his personal space, and then swiped the pads of two fingers gently down the Quartermaster’s inner arm.  The caress straddled the line between friendly and intimate.  “This isn’t a good idea, Q.”

“All of your plans are bad ideas.  Yet, somehow, you come out alive when the smoke clears.”

“We’re not talking about missions...we’re talking about sex.”

As predicted, the word made Q flinched and jerk back, the connection broken between his inner wrist and Bond’s fingertips.  He had to visibly steel himself, but then he leaned back forward again.  In fact, he managed to put on a wry smile and say with the dryness of a desert, “That’s quite shallow of you, 007.  I was under the impression that you were interested in courting me, which I would hope includes something more than physical interests.”

Bond snorted, not deterred but perhaps a bit amused by the shrewd comment.  “I’m still not sure I can help you get over what Silva and his men did to you.  I sure as hell can’t give you tips on relationships.  You’ll have to go to Moneypenny for that.  Or Alec.  Alec kept a goldfish alive for three weeks once.”  

The last comment got Q snorting and then breaking out into a laugh.  “What,” he said between chuckles, “does Alec’s goldfish had to do with this?”

“He’s better at keeping goldfish alive than most of us are with relationships.  It gives you an idea how qualified I am to give advice.”

By now Q was helpless with laughter, most of his muffled as he covered his mouth, but his whole body was shaking with it, and something about the sight got Bond to relax again.  He glanced over to their food, which was probably lukewarm by now but still smelled delicious.  “How about this, Q?  We have our dinner, pretend that both of us are perfectly normal, and then we can both pretend that we’re not totally screwed in the category of interpersonal relationships?”

Looking up at Bond’s charming, teasing smile, Q was still highly amused, laughter bubbling up every few breaths as he tried to contain himself.  His small smile was a wonderful thing.  “I’d like that.”

From there on, dinner was eaten more or less in silence, at least until Bond got Q talking about Q-branch.  After that, Bond mostly ate and pretended he had the vaguest idea what Q was going on about, and the Quartermaster lectured and waved his fork around, narrowly avoiding throwing food.  Bond was perhaps 65% sure that Q was talking about the means necessary to remove a virus from his system, and tricky it could be to rig MI6 systems to help him in that front.  Or Q could have been talking about a spider infestation in Q-branch.  Either was a distinct possibility.  

Q finished eating first.  Or, rather, he grew progressively quieter and more interested in watching Bond than eating, while the 00-agent calmly continued working his way through the meal.  It tasted divine - clearly from a place had hadn’t ordered food from a million times already - and he knew that he was being watched with anxious, anticipatory eyes.  Bond pretended to be absorbed in his meal for precisely the length of time it took for anticipation to outweigh anxiety.  “My compliments to the chef.  Or to Kaleb, for having good tastes,” he sat back to nod and smile congenially at the take-out trays.  His eyes lifted to settle on Q’s face, their blue seeming a shadow darker, as if flooded by the pure weight of _interest_ with which they regarded the Quartermaster’s face.  Q’s body gave a slight shudder at the look, even though it was not leering or suggestive in the slightest.  If anything, Bond’s expression was quite flat.  

“How do you do that?” Q finally asked with an uncomfortable little cough.

One pale brow arched.  “Do what?”

“Make me feel like the most important thing in the room.”

“Q, ever since the Augment uprising, I live in a concrete shoebox.  You _are_ the most important thing in this room.”  

“Okay, touché, but still…” Q rolled his eyes, exasperated by the joking avoidance.  His gaze landed on Bond’s again, seeming to try and figure him out from across the small, flimsy table.  “What now?” he asked in a much softer voice.  

Instead of answering, Bond simply stood, a smooth coiling and uncoiling of muscles.  He took the way Q’s body tautened like a spring winding up, the one hand on the table unconsciously convulsing into a fist, but Q held his ground.  His breathing picked up, too.

“Q.”  Bond paused, standing over him.  

“What?” was the tight response, far snarkier than was really warranted.

Quite calmly, the agent answered, “The first step is to _not_ hyperventilate.  If you hyperventilate, we’ll be spending the next hour down in Medical instead of...whatever it is we’re doing.”

Q emitted a slightly manic little chuckle, glancing away and worrying at the inside of his lip in an attempt to hide his sharp embarrassment.  Almost as soon as he looked away, though, he found himself jerking his head back, eyes surprised and cautious as he watched the agent slip to his knees in front of him.  “What are you doing?” he asked in pure bewilderment.  

In reply, Bond just tilted his features in an expression that said, ‘ _You figure it out_.’  Which Q did, a moment later, with a rueful twist of his mouth that was not quite a frown and not quite amused.  

“Making yourself less threatening?”

“You’re getting rather good at this,” Bond couldn’t help but tease, and would have received a swat to his head for that if it hadn’t been second-nature to catch Q’s hand.  “Now, now, Q,” he admonished, quite a smirk developing at the corner of his mouth as his blue eyes danced, “You had your freebee earlier, and while I rather like what you did with it, that’s the only chance you get to smack me without me defending myself.”  

“You’re insufferable,” Q tried to sound offended, but his eyes were a little bit to dilated for that, his breathing not slow enough.  Bond’s only response to the statement was to bring Q’s wrist in gently, focusing on his task of desensitizing Q to human contact: he moved his skilled mouth across the younger man’s palm, just brushing with his lips.  The bridge of his nose met up with half-curled fingertips, and he thought he felt a faint crackle like loose electrical wiring, or the ghost of a carpet-spark.  

“Okay, Q?” he asked, not lifting his attention.  

“Uh...What?  Oh, yes,” Q nodded, flustered.  Bond took that as permission to mouth gently at the base of Q’s thumb, paying attention to the Quartermaster’s hand as if it had become his whole world.  All the while, 007’s mind was calmly calculating, as it would on a mission, precisely what to do to make a mark happy, compliant, and calm - because scaring and intimidating people wasn’t the answer to all of a spy’s problems, or even most of them.  Bond was quite possibly better at soothing people into a false sense of security than he was at killing them, although one thing led to another…

But not with Q.  This would be a novel experience, soothing a mark without any intention of harming them or shredding their trust to pieces later.  If anything, that made Bond even more engrossed in his task, as his shifted his hand - gripping Q’s arm further up so that he had access to one pale wrist.  The soft skin of Q’s pulse he tasted with his tongue, all of his senses strained to note how Q would react without actually looking in the least attentive.

Q sucked in a quiet, but quick, breath.  Tendons of Q’s arm moved under Bond’s grip like piano wires as the keys were played, delicate and artful beneath Q’s shirtsleeve.  So far, there wasn’t any panic or sign of denial coming up, so Bond took that as a victory and let more of his tongue slip out more, lathing it across the whole of Q’s wrist.  This time, he got a little hiss for his troubles, and grinned inwardly.  “Still good so far?” he asked in a low tone that had grown husky around the edges.  It was now more of a purr than a concise and professional query.  

To be fair, Q’s response was notably shaken with stutters, the words quick to match his rising heart-rate.  “I-I, really…!  That is...yes...I mean, yes, it’s fine.  I’m fine.”  He didn’t sound entirely sure, but flustered was still a step above afraid.  This was progress, and Bond was a bit relieved.  

007’s other hand had started stroking up and down Q’s pantleg while Q had been focusing on the agent’s mouth.  Now, in the momentary and purposeful reprieve, Q noticed, glancing down in surprise at the hand rising up and down his left shin.  It was harmless, but it was more than Q would have allowed someone to do before now.  Bond met Q’s eyes and glanced down at his caressing hand significantly, the backs of his knuckles pausing just below the Quartermaster’s kneecap.  “Can I go further?”

“I-”  Once again, Q’s voice got caught up in his throat, but this time with something sharpened by tension.  His eyes grew a little wild.  “I’d rather you didn’t, that’s…  I’m not comfortable.”  He looked humiliated by the admission, and guiltily regretful at halting Bond so quickly.  It felt like a failure.  Hazel eyes fraught with apology and embarrassment looked down.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to apologize, Q,” Bond said without hesitating, already switching strategies in his head.  Game-plans were always fluid.  Bond had expected more than a few setbacks.  “I didn’t exactly expect you to suddenly be _easy_ \- just that you’d trust me a bit.  This trust is enough so far.”  He nodded his head back to Q’s wrist, where the longer-fingers hand had curled into a loose, anxious fist, but loosened as Bond kissed each joint.  Inwardly, 007 nodded as Q relaxed at the gentle praise expressed both verbally and physically.  

“What next?” Q cleared his throat and asked, trying for offhandedness but sounding breathy instead.  When Bond glanced up, he saw the Quartermaster alluring flushed, his pupils beautifully wide.  

Bond quirked a smile, sitting back with a languid roll of muscles.  “You could always kiss me.  A moment ago, you seemed rather interested in that.”

The impulsive kiss on the bed was remembered, and Q blushed, using his free hand to push his glasses up his nose to try and distract himself.  He looked anywhere rather than at Bond’s face and the teasing, blue-eyed look of amusement watching him there.  “O-Okay,” Q surprised them both by agreeing, finally turning back.  He had the most adorable look of pugnacious determination on his face, as if he were about to defeat an opponent rather than kiss someone he’d already admitted to finding attractive.  “I’m not very good at this, though.  Even before...what happened...I didn’t precisely get a lot of practice.”

“Don’t worry, Q.  I have,” 007 reminded, mildly curious to see how this would go.  He still had hold of one of Q’s arms, although said arm was resting idly over Q’s leg now, with Bond’s loosened fingers calmly mapping out the protruding bones of the Quartermaster’s wrist.

Bond’s response had Q’s mouth twisting down in a grimace.  “That was what I was afraid you’d say.  The most practice you’ve had, the more amateurish I’m about to seem.  Oh well.”  Q shrugged his shoulders and seemed to brace himself, refusing to balk any longer at such a seemingly simple task.  His nervousness was only betrayed by the tightening of his muscles, which Bond could see and feel with their nearness.  “No laughing!” Q warned very seriously, as he leaned forward, doing it awkwardly enough that he nearly made their head’s collide.  “Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Q.  People don’t apologize for shooting me, so you surely don’t have to apologize for not-quite head-butting me.”  

Instead of arguing or sympathizing with Bond over that truly lamentable fact of life, Q leaned the rest of the way down and sealed his lips against 007’s.  It had the feel of a person desperately afraid of water finally just jumping in, trusting that the person waiting in the water for them wouldn’t let them drown.  Bond had no intention of letting Q drown - or, rather, he had every intention of drowning the man himself, but he planned on it being far more pleasurable an experience than being dragged underwater.  

To say that 007 had practice at kissing would be an understatement no matter how one put it.  He had enough practice now that he was able to swiftly calculate just how much he had to tone it down to keep from scaring Q, but to still get him hooked in an instant.  Q’s lips were fumbling and hesitant, the touch sweet and endearing - a flavor of intimacy that had James’s heart lurching, because he wasn’t used to it.  Most kisses he had were burning, not gentle and uncertain like this.  It took a surprising amount of energy just to remind himself of his task, which was to prove to Q that gestures of human affection could be trust.  In reality, he wanted to grab and to take and devour, because he couldn’t remember how long it had been since something that tantalized him quite as much as Q did right now.  

How ironic it would be, he imagined, to tell Q that his awkward little kiss was more of a turn-on than anything else 007 could presently remember.  

Without obviously taking over the kiss, Bond coaxed and led it, turning his head to perfect the angle, giving the Quartermaster subtle directions with lips and tongue.  Q’s hand slipped free of his grip, and the agent fought to hide the way he stiffened with natural caution - never losing a beat in the kiss, he opened his eyes to watchful blue slits just in time to feel and see Q’s tentative hand come up and cup his cheek.  007 closed his eyes again to groan into Q’s mouth, and right about then some of the walls of hesitancy broke down around the Quartermaster.  

007 knelt up a bit as the kiss became more passionate - more driven.  Q was forgetting about the other mouths that had touched him - demanded from him, taken from him - in favor of being swallowed up by all that was Bond.  Skilled or not, when Q’s tongue slid into Bond’s mouth, Bond relished the taste.  The 00-agent fought to keep his hands to himself, knowing that this loss of inhibitions was not universal: one touch could send Q back into memories that neither of them wanted to contemplate.  Q’s hands, however, Bond let wander freely, and the agent growled appreciatively when dexterous fingers curled through the hair at the back of his head, prickling his scalp.  Q must not have realized that he’d even done that, because he gasped in surprise, and it took everything Bond had not to follow Q’s tongue back into the younger man’s mouth.  That would be a step too far, too fast, however, so 007 made himself be patient.  Up on his knees with Q’s legs now brushing his hips, Bond simply waited until Q pressed forward again, both hands now cupping the agent’s face with more certainty.  Bond wasn’t exactly sure which he was doing now: getting Q used to intimate contact, or teaching him the best ways to please a partner.  Both led to possibilities that had heat pooling low in 007’s belly and stretching outwards like the most delicious of fevers, so that he wanted nothing more than to crush Q to him.  

Perhaps it was best that the two of them stopped for air then, Q panting and flushed, eyes perfectly glazed.  His glasses had slipped halfway down his nose, but he left them, blinking at 007 from a close distance.  “Well…” he tried for the professionalism of a Quartermaster, and did remarkably well for someone whose lips were damp and red from the nips of 007’s teeth, “Would that be…?  Would that be counted as progress?”

~^~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go - a kiss to make up for the long gap between posting ;3 I've got four pages of an even sexier scene written out, but it's a little bit too intimate to fit in with this chapter just yet. But I was getting impatient to pair those two up, so I had to have a bit of sexiness! 
> 
> As much as I want to make this fic believable, I just want Bond and Q to jump each other...yes, I'm that shallow


	22. Exorcising Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which demons are met face-to-face. Saying anything more will give it away... ;3
> 
> Or the chapter in which Q takes one (or more than one) for the team, Kaleb makes an appearance again, and Bond goes ballistic. This...might...end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for some angst and some cute! (As well as at least one direct reference to Q's experience at the hands of Silva's men)

Bond shot off a couple of rounds at the firing range, because that was considered normal, and everything else honestly in his life was decidedly abnormal.  He’d thought he’d gotten used to most of the weirdness, starting with his own Augment abilities and building up to the fact that London was mostly under siege and the rest of the world was holding its breath still and hoping this wasn’t not contagious.  Of course, as soon as all that had become normal, a certain Technopath named Q had waltzed in and had made things odd all over again...although not necessarily in a bad way.  

More than tentatively, 007 was calling the previous night’s dinner with Q a success.  Just the memory made him pause in his shooting, body still poised but quivering slightly as if heat and anticipation were chasing themselves through his muscles in minute waves.  He made an appreciative noise in his throat without even thinking about it, and shot off a few more rounds before admitting that he was well and truly distracted, and the Quartermaster should share a bit in that distraction.  Surely ten hours was long enough for last night’s snogging to have worn off, and Q would be ready to try some more…

With a decided bounce in his step despite the fact that he was still officially grounded due to ‘physical and mental trauma’ (Medical and Psych’s way of saying he had more things wrong with him than they could technically pin down and identify, what with his healing ability and skills at lying and denying), Bond exited the firing range and went to hunt up one Quartermaster.  

He was detained almost as soon as he left the firing range, nearly tripping over Kaleb - who started out in dog-form, but then transformed so quickly into a human that Bond didn’t even had time to go for his gun.  It was easily the oddest thing he’d ever seen: Kaleb’s body just seemed to ripple and stretch, like melting glass, and then re-solidify on two legs.  “Bloody fuck,” was all Bond could say to that, staring and processing that for a second longer before he realized that the shape-shifting young man looked about as panicked as he’d ever seen him.  Immediately, James was all business.  “What happened?”

Three words to shake the earth.  “Silva was caught.”  A few more to make Bond focus through the bone-eating shock.  “Q just found out that they brought him in, and he’s taking it with more...surprise...than joy.  He insisted on going to see Silva…”  Kaleb tugged his hood up over his head like a paranoid reflex, and it became even more obvious how worried and cornered he felt as he tried to hide within the clothing’s shadow.  It made him look painfully young and on the verge of going manic, his soft, shy brown eyes darting between the floor and Bond’s serious gaze.  “Please, can you-?” he implored with a very dog-like whine.

Bond finished the sentence without hesitation.  “I’ll go talk to him.”  All of his vicious joy at Silva being captured at long last was pushed aside almost before it could blossom, as he imagined Q facing off against a man who no doubt haunted his nightmares.  Sometimes, it was good to have monsters like those exorcised...but most of the time it was just gut-wrenchingly painful.  If Kaleb was this worried, and unable to get through to Q, things definitely weren’t going well.  “Take me to him,” 007 commanded, turning the shifter around with a hand on one lithe shoulder.  

He ended up keeping his hand on Kaleb’s shoulder, because the ex-dog just looked so worried that all of Bond’s protective instincts reared up again.  He wondered when he’d become so sentimental, but he figured it had started about when he’d started working with Q.  At least his feelings towards Q’s ex were more paternal or fraternal than romantic, and he was maintaining physical contact as a silent show of support.  Kaleb leaned into it, sometimes glancing back at him with shyly thankful eyes.  

Bond’s support also meant that no one stopped them along the way, even as they walked past multiple layers of security to reach the clear walls of Silva’s holding cell.  Kaleb must have gotten in and out as a dog last time (his small size making him hard to notice and harder to catch), and the Quartermaster had either misused his rank for his technological powers to get this close without being detained.  At the sight of Q, standing unmoving and unstrung before the bullet-proof glass, Kaleb made an agonized whimper in his throat and turned back into a dog - apparently, that was his way of dealing with emotional hurt.  Bond would have to find a different approach.  

Leaving Kaleb to follow almost timidly at his heels (head down, tail low), 007 sighed and strode forward as brashly as he would into a warzone he couldn’t avoid.  He was still standing in shadow, where he couldn’t be seen, but he could see Silva watching Q fixedly with avaricious glee, as if his eyes could see wounds opening up on every inch of skin.  Then again, one didn’t have to be a Visceral to open up deep wounds.  His own face as foreboding as light off a beheading axe, 007 strode forward out of the shadows to loom up behind Q’s back, perfectly aware of the image he was presenting: one moment, Q was alone and vulnerable, the next he had an angry 00-agent at his back like a brawny shield.  Silva’s eyes snapped up immediately, the little smirk playing on his face freezing.  It took Q a second to catch on to what had changed, only noticing and giving a sharp inhale as he became aware of warm muscle at his back.  “Bond,” he breathed, turning back startled eyes that were starting to calm down.  007 met his gaze with sharp, glacial eyes, turning the full force of that chill immediately back to Silva.

“Get tired of living, Silva?” Bond growled in a razor-edged version of his usual charm.  He wasn’t smiling either, although he knew he was perfectly capable of smiling while pulling a trigger.  Right now, his hands honestly itched for just such a trigger, but having it ricochet of bullet-proof glass would ruin the fun.  

“How very nice to see you again, James.  I’m impressed, really,” Silva chatted as if he weren’t bound up in a cell with more security than most vaults to hold him in, “You’ve either healed marvelously or are hiding it even better than expected.  I was trying to ask Q here if your mind had broken, but as you can expect, he has not been very forthcoming.”  Silva looked at Q and clucked his tongue in mock regret, chiding him as if the Quartermaster were a small child.  Bond took in the way Q’s slender hands clenched into fists.  

Calculatingly, Silva’s eyes lifted back up to Bond’s, and that smile grew wider, enough so that even 007 had to hold down a shudder.  “Our talk was just getting interesting, actually.  You see, I was giving in to your little Quartermaster and telling him where some of my fellow Augments are hiding.”

That explained why Q was still here and why none of the security guards in MI6 had tried to pull him away.  It still didn’t make up for the fact that that was suspicious as fuck.  “Why?” he demanded in a low snarl like bones breaking.  

“Bond,” Q actually hushed him, in a strained and listless voice.  He didn’t look away from Silva - it almost seemed as if he _couldn’t_ \- but reached back blindly with a hand.  His elbow brushed the gun still holstered at 007’s side, but his questing hand laid itself calmingly against the agent’s side, warm through the edge of his shirt above his hipbone.  “It’s all right.  He won’t talk for anyone else this easily, so we may as well listen until it’s proven that he’s just feeding us lies,” Q logically explained himself.

“I’m afraid it looks like James here doesn’t see the logic of things that you do, Q dear,” Silva lamented, cocking his head against the harsh overhead light.  

“No, I just don’t think that he’s telling you anything true,” growled the agent in return, his own hand reflexively coming forward to curl around Q’s hip.  It was a mirror of Q’s touch, but instead of being quieting and stalling, 007’s was possessive, his fingers unable to stop the way they pressed down against the hem of Q’s trousers.  Q didn’t flinch, though, instead accepting the touch as his due.  

Still, the Quartermaster remained fixed in place, unmoved.  “Talk, Silva,” he bit the words out with the crisp edges he had fostered while running Q-branch.  Bond was good enough to read the brittleness to them, however, and it was all he could do not to just pull Q back and out of the room.  From further behind them both, still in shadow, Kaleb whined again.  

“Because you asked so nicely,” Silva acquiesced instantly, startling 007.  The agent frowned while Silva smirked winningly.  “Jacoba White.  Do you remember him, Q?”  Q’s tensing under Bond’s grip said that he did - a memory keen enough to make him flinch.  “I’m sure you do,” Silva went on conversationally and as blithely as if they were two old ladies gossiping over tea, “Big hands, never smiled...oh, what was his power?  Ah!  Yes!  He was one of my Telekinetics.  He bent you into such lovely shapes with just his mind, and only really got his hands into it when he fucked you-”

Bond’s hands slid around Q’s body and turned him around without a second more passing, honestly wishing he’d done that the moment he’d come in.  Oh, Silva was pouring truth into Q’s ear all right - he was lacing it all with such pain, however, that 007 didn’t believe that any amount of information was worth it.  Swallowing honey with acid didn’t taste sweet, it just ate you up inside.  Q didn’t put up a fight as 007 marched him out of the room, wishing the glass wall wasn’t protecting Silva so he could shoot him between the eyes.  Under his hands, Q felt as silent as unresponsive as a doll, all long, fragile limbs and bird-like bones that moved automatically at the agent’s insistence.  

Immediately, Kaleb was with them, human but having no idea what to do as he fell in just back of 007’s right shoulder.  “He’s been listening to that since before I came and got you,” the shifter whispered, nearly in a panic himself.  Sometimes it was easy to forget that Kaleb was a young man with a damaged persona, who had hidden in a dog’s form for ages after being brutally beaten almost to death.  He wasn’t equipped to deal with Q like this.  “But he stayed and listened anyway, because after saying...all of that...Silva would tell him the location of the person he was talking about.”

“It’s not worth it, Q,” Bond hissed in the Technopath’s ear, almost vicious with anger, even if that anger was directed at the monster they were leaving behind them.  A monster who was laughing like a madmen in the wake of their exit.  Bond wanted to hollow out every single one of Silva’s words from Q’s mind, and then he wanted to hollow Silva out with hot lead, but 007 had to settle for filling Q’s ears with his own voice instead, leaning in far closer than personal boundaries honestly allowed.  “I don’t care if he tells you who hung the fucking moon, it’s not worth it to sit and listen to him.  This is the last weapon he has left - don’t you _dare_ let him use it on you!”

Q must have been so pummelled and numb that he’d forgotten that people crowding him made him nervous, because he allowed the voice snarling hotly in his ear and the hands locked tightly on his shoulders.  He even allowed the fact that Bond was walking so closely behind him that he nearly stepped on Q’s heels with every pace, as if he were trying to take up the same space as the smaller man.  Q’s eyes were glassy as he looked forward past his spectacles and tangled hair, letting himself be steered and pushed forward by the overprotective agent who was just about to go ballistic if things got any more tense.  

They almost did when he opened the doorway to the hall and guards were frowning at him.  It looked like they’d been unhappy to let him in and were now equally unhappy with him leaving with their only useful interrogator, and that tipped 007 right over the edge.

“007!” barked Kaleb - literally a bark, his voice rising to an alarmed pitch.  James was so far past listening that the sound barely registered.  His entire focus was on the guards blocking his way, and that he’d bloody had _enough_.  The gun was out of its holster almost before he consciously decided to draw it, aimed over Q’s shoulder while his other hand remained locked down on Q’s shoulder in a grip that only suicidal fools would try and break.  

“Reach for a weapon and I’ll shove it so far down your throat you’ll be shooting it out your ar-!” he started to threaten with complete sincerity, but Q had finally come awake then, Bond’s sudden madness tossing him out of his pleasant catatonia.  

“Bond, what are you-?!” he squeaked breathlessly, managing to turn in 007’s grip but not actually distract him - because one of the guards decided to go for his gun anyway.  It was a dumb move, because 007 hadn’t been kidding or exaggerating his threat in the slightest.  Completely oblivious to Q, Bond’s muscles shifted and coiled, preparing to take the next step from warning to acting.  By that point, Q had turned to brace his hands against the agent’s chest, but looked back to see the other weapons being drawn, yelping in horrified surprise.  He knew that if any of them cleared their holsters enough to become threats, 007 would take the initiative and open fire.  

Q did the only thing he could: he jerked away from Bond just enough to touch the wall, sending out his powers deeper.  The entire hallways was suddenly thrown into darkness, eliciting noises of surprise, and even a baffled grunt from 007 a second before Q slipped back in close and wrapped his hand around Bond’s gun.  Said gun was promptly ripped back out of his reach with a reflexive, practiced jerk of James’s arm, but not before Q had used his powers on that, too - like mechanical locks, it was harder for his Technopath powers to grasp and manipulate, but he ground up its inner workings so that it would no longer be deadly as anything but a bludgeon.  “Stop it!  Stop it, Bond!” Q hissed in the darkness while people scrambled for the light-switches (fat lot of good that would do them), “I broke your gun, so you may as well cool it!”  His attempts at desperately bringing Bond back down to earth seemed to be working, so much as Q could tell in near-complete darkness.  He thought he saw 007’s eyes snap down to his, and he could feel the wall of muscle stilling under his hands; the thud off heartbeat against his palm settled into a steadier rhythm, even if it didn’t slow much.  Clearly, this situation wasn’t going to be as easy to diffuse as the electricity had been, especially with people still yelling all around him.  Q turned, still keeping close enough to feel 007 in the darkness.  He ignored for now that the contact seemed to be useful both ways: Q didn’t lose a dangerous, threatened 00-agent, and Bond kept a hand wrapped around Q’s arm, as if afraid to misplace him, too.  

Pulling together his best Quartermaster voice, Q hollered, “All right, everyone, that’s _quite_ enough!  I turned off the lights to prevent this place being riddled by bullets, and I’m only going to turn them back on if you lot put your guns away.”  For as shaken as he was, he sounded like the most controlled person in the room...and not as if he had a borderline-psychotic agent breathing down his neck.  Spine stiff and expression imperious even if no one could see it, Q informed the rapidly quieting darkness, “And don’t lie to me - I designed most of your guns, and I can sense where they are.  Technopath, remember?”  The last part was a bit bitter and definitely dry, but no one was yelling anymore.  He could hear soft growling, and if it hadn’t been coming from knee-height, he’d have swatted Bond and told him to hush.  Instead, he waited until Kaleb settled down, then eased over to the wall (somehow without tripping or dislodging James).  

The lights came back on, although Q kept his hand on the wall and a highly distrustful look on his face as everyone blinked at the returning light.  The electricity was going right back off if anyone decided to make a move.  A quick glance told him that Bond was the only one who hadn’t listened, but still had his weapon drawn, albeit hidden by Q’s body.  Except a small, resigned sigh, there was nothing Q could honestly do about that, and tried to stifle the little crackle of fear still tracing up and down his spine.  “Let us through.  I'll handle this.”

“No offense, Quartermaster, but 007-” one of the guards started to argue.

Help came from an unexpected source: M’s voice was suddenly coming down the hall like a whip-crack.  “Let them through.  I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’d be outmatched if 007 truly decided to let loose right now, and I do not want this hallway turned into an opportunity for my best 00-agent to show my security guards like fish in a barrel.  Are we clear?”  She somehow managed to make that sound so simple, chastising everyone quite neatly, although 007 merely narrowed his eyes and firmed his jaw.  When M met his eyes briefly, worried flashed in them.  She quickly looked back to Q, and her sub-zero mask was back in place, cool and collected as always.  “Quartermaster, were you sincere when you said you could handle the situation?”

Q cleared his throat.  Talking to M always felt just a bit like facing down a Komodo dragon and trying not to focus on its teeth while you talked.  “Y-Yes, M.  Entirely sincere.  This was all just a misunderstanding, made worse by the tension everyone is feeling.”

“Hmm.  Yes.  Everyone,” her words were dismissive but her eyes flicked over Q from head to foot with an impersonal, calculated slide of her eyes, and Q felt himself flushing and trying to unclench his hands.  The one on the wall, at least, lowered, and he stopped mentally tracking every piece of technology within reach - with the exception of 007’s gun, which while incapacitated, was probably still deadly in Bond’s hands.  The man could kill a person with a paper-clip.  

“I apologize for the upset,” seemed like the thing to say, ignoring the fact that it was mostly Bond’s fault, but he clearly wasn’t in the mood to apologize.  

M tilted up one eyebrow, seeing what Q was thinking as clearly as if she were a mindreader.  “You’re dismissed, Quartermaster.  Inform me when I can have my 00-agent back.”

Needing no further encouragement, Q began treading carefully forward, eyeing each security guard a bit warily, because there was a surplus of people who liked to fancy themselves heroes in situations like this.  No one had commented on that fact that he hadn’t even _addressed_ 007, and the fact that the agent still looked like something feral just barely leashed (to the Quartermaster) managed to make everyone back off and clear a path.  “Kaleb,” Q murmured down to the dog already trotting at his feet as they left the hall that had nearly become a kill-zone, “Inform M that we’ll be in...my quarters.  Don’t look at me like that!  I said I could handle this, and I meant it.  If Bond goes mad again I’ll clock him with something.”  The dog seemed only half convinced, but after a little glance between the still-silent agent and the strained, pleading look on Q’s face, Kaleb turned around the way he’d come.  

~^~

007 still hadn’t said a word by the time they entered the little shoebox of a room that Q called his own, but once they were in and Q closed the door - also locking it, something he usually hesitated to do when he was closed in with another person - 007 crowded him against the door and just stood there, head tucked into the crook of Q’s neck.  Q squirmed not unlike an antisocial cat trying to find an acceptable way to slip loose of a toddler’s impromptu hug.  “Bond... Bond!” he protested halfheartedly, trying to remember that this was James and not any number of people that Silva had reminded him of today.

Then Bond was sighing against his throat and Q was remembering when he’d first officially met the agent, pinned up against a wall not unlike this, the blond-haired man creating a pocket of fragile safety in the cage of his body.  “Sorry,” he grumbled, meaning it, even if he sounded testy still.  Q could see nearly all of his muscles knotted down his back and arms, signs that he was still a long ways from being calm.  Apparently he was back to himself enough to realize that he was making his Quartermaster uncomfortable, though, because a moment later he backed up with a tired sigh.  

“Gun, 007?”  Q collected himself by straightening his clothes and looking to the disabled weapon still in the larger man’s calloused grip.  Bond looked to it, almost surprised but not quite, and then tossed it on the flimsy nearby table.  “Good.  That lowers the level of danger in the room considerably,” Q made light of the situation, but couldn’t quite hide how breathless he sounded.  Bond still hadn’t settled.  “James, it’s all right.  Really.”  It suddenly struck Q that this might literally be a mental break - 007 had been unstable since his torture, and that was all so recent that Psych hadn’t even written up their final report on 007’s mental condition.  Q had to concur with preliminary reports labeling Bond as mentally unstable, because he could still hear Bond laughing through blood sometimes when he fell asleep.  This situation could be a lot more unstable than Q had imagined, but his first instinct was still to step forward instead of away, because he needed the comfort and he hoped Bond did, too.  

When Q came forward with quick steps and then hurriedly cupped Bond’s jaw with his hands, he met no resistance.  In fact, Bond turned his head quite willingly once Q leaned in and brushed their lips together, starting an urgent kiss that was fierce and ended quickly.  Q’s eyes danced across 007’s rugged face when he pulled back, looking for signs that the anger had faded to show something more familiar than a homicidal mask.  When he didn’t, he of course decided to say something monumentally idiotic instead of doing the smart thing and trying to escape.  “You know there’s no one for you to shoot, Bond, so you’re just going to have to get over this another way.”

There was one blink.  And then another.  And then a huff of laughter was being snorted through Bond’s nose, even though the look he was giving Q was some mix of startled and offended, all still very tangled up in aggression.  “Careful what you say, Q,” the agent warned in a voice that held onto its graveyard shadows and roughness.  Q’s heart stuttered and his breath caught as the sound tingled up his spine like a lightning bolt striking ground too close.  Bond was still dangerous, and possibly not gripping his sanity has tightly as usual, but he was keeping himself admirably under control with Q in the room.  “You know as well as anyone else that I only have two other options for getting over things: one involved alcohol in unhealthy levels and one involves warm bodies.”

Bond’s self-control definitely sounded as though it was being stretched thin, but Q, after standing where he was and not breathing for a bit, decided to go out on a limb and trust that Bond’s protective instincts were still cranked up higher than his...sexual instincts.  After all, this had all started with 007 dragging Q away from…

Q didn’t want to think about it.  Unfortunately, something like remembered horror must have skittered across his face, because suddenly Bond was easing forward and taking hold of one of his wrists.  When Q tried to back away uneasily, the agent stopped getting closer but didn’t let go.  Q’s hand was eased almost casually against the agent’s chest, where 007 looked down at it, rubbing Q’s knuckles with an absent thumb as if cataloguing the little shivers.  “How many of his own men did Silva give up just to fuck with your head?” he asked in a growl that belonged in the belly of a wolf, not the mouth of a man.  

Swallowing with an embarrassingly audible click, Q tried to lie, “Just two,” but then realized that his fingers had begun twitching in a familiar patterns against 007’s shirt: tiny circle counterclockwise, tiny circle clockwise.  Bond looked up enough to cock an eyebrow, making it clear that he was taking close note of the Quartermaster’s nervous tic.  “That’s cheating,” Q sighed, without much hope of getting the agent to stop.  The Quartermaster didn’t even try and free his hand, which, after all, felt quite safe cradled between muscle and bone, strength and strength.  

“Don’t lie to me and cheating won’t be necessary.  How many, Q?”

Q leaned forward until he could thump his forehead against one of the agent’s shoulders.  Suddenly, he felt as though he needed the support.  “Eight.  Would have been nine if you hadn’t come in.”  Q hated how gutted he sounded when he said that, and couldn’t suppress the shiver that grated up his spine and drew every muscle of his back to cramping tautness so that he curled into Bond’s frame.  The agent just grunted, accepting the momentary increase in weight with barely a shift in stance.  He kept Q’s hand, caressing it with the calloused pads of gentle fingers.  “I know he was probably lying, but so long as there was even a chance that he would give up his own men - and we both know that he’s amoral and sick enough to do that - then I had to do it.”

The low growl in Bond’s throat said he didn’t agree, but he didn’t say anything on the matter.  Instead, he nosed at Q’s hair and murmured in something resembling curiosity, “Did you really break my gun?”

Q snorted at the impromptu shift in topic.  “Of course I did.  I lie about traumatically scarring life events, but never about my own tech.  It was incredibly difficult to manage on the fly like that, but I had great incentive to make sure that you did not have an active, bullet-firing weapon,” Q informed him bluntly and dryly without pulling away.  He found that he liked this level of intimacy, in which the only restraint he had was the gentle grip upon his hand.  Bond’s other arm had remained limp at his side, only the occasional flex of his shoulder showing how much he wanted to just grab and hold on.  “Thank you.”

“For what?  Nearly losing my mind and shooting up a hallway full of MI6 employees?”

“For putting up with my oddities, which, at the moment if I’m not mistaken, go very much against your natural reflexes.”  Q turned his head, bright, witty eyes taking in the faint lines of frustration that he knew would be bracketing Bond’s narrowed blue eyes and frowning mouth.  “I got the sense that you sort of wanted to wrap around me like an octopus when we were leaving Silva.”

Q got more delight than he should have from watching embarrassment briefly light Bond’s eyes, a rare sight indeed on an MI6 agent of Bond’s caliber.  He looked away and grumbled while Q chuckled, saying something about how he was most definitely not an octopus, because that wasn’t manly at all, and implied clinginess.  

“Oh, and you’re not clingy at all?”

“Handsy.  I told you I was _handsy_.  There happens to be a vast degree of difference - and you said you didn’t mind my handsiness anyway!”

“I still don’t,” Q said, realizing he was smiling with his head remaining pillowed against Bond’s shoulder...and their faces were so close when 007 turned his head to glare at him.  The glare softened and its heat transformed into something different as easily as ice becoming water, and then Q was feeling lips touch the edge of his ear - tentative, reverent.  When Bond pulled away, eyes asking if that was all right, Q still had a bit of his smile, enough to tease breathlessly, “That was barely handsy at all.  I’m disappointed.”

“Q, I told you to watch what that smart mouth of yours said,” warned Bond raggedly as his eyes darkened from a winter sky to something heralding a storm instead, pupils dilating in a way that Q figured his were, too.  All of the emotions that Silva had shredded and dragged all over the place were still out in the open and raw, but they felt to Q like idle hands, reaching and grasping for something to hold onto.  Bond was a viable option, and seemed not to be opposed to the idea.  In fact, Q thought that Bond could weather the storm of his emotions without flinching - and Q could possibly throw himself into that same storm with Bond without becoming lost in fear.  

“I am watching what I say,” Q kept up the teasing, even as his words became more careful and his heart-rate picked up, “I’m just thinking that I don’t have any alcohol, and that leaves you only one way to relieve stress.”

“Q…”

“We both need the distraction.  Admit it.”

“But not at the cost of your peace of mind.  I won’t do anything to you if it means having you look at me like you look at Silva,” returned Bond with vicious stubbornness, his eyes so blue and so torn.  

Although it would be a lie to say that Q wasn’t quivering a little on the inside in fear, that was not the dominant emotion as he held 007’s eyes with anticipation and hope.  The latter was something he’d thought broken forever, once, until a certain blue-eyed, blonde-haired agent had come striding in, swallowing his screams with kisses only to whisper apologies into his hair, saving him from the demons against and again.  Q freed his hand from Bond’s grip enough to lift it to the back of 007’s head, just touching the hair at his nape for a moment, then tentatively pulling the man in closer.  Bond gave with a groan that sounded helplessly like defeat, but not at all sad about it.  The kiss was definitely hungry, and Q again felt 007’s muscles twitch and flex as he resisted the urge to grab Q and cage him in - Q was glad he didn’t, because while he’d gotten brave enough to want to try all of this, he could still feel all of his phobias and fears sticking out like sharp, broken edges.  

Bond broke away, something carnal in his eyes that he was clearly trying to keep a leash on... which made for a much hotter expression than any man had a right to wear, Q thought.  Bond was trying to be serious, though: “You have to tell me when to stop.  You say the word, and this ends - but if you don’t-”

“I know, James.  I know what I’m asking for,” Q assured him, looking as guilt and want played tug-of-war in glacial blue eyes.  “And...I’ll tell you if…”  Q took a breath, already thinking of strange hands and cruel looks on his body.  He closed his eyes hard, taking a deep breath to banish them, hating all the while that they could still steal had happiness so long after the event had passed.  “...If the demons come back,” he finally phrased it, because just plain memories should not have had claws like that.  

007’s eyes were still full of longing and heat, but they softened fractionally - in understanding.  ‘ _I know demons_ ,’ his eyes said.  His mouth said the same, as he leaned in and kissed Q slowly (but still not deeply, knowing the limits), pulling back enough to murmur in a low and smiling promise, “Let’s exorcise a few of those, shall we?”

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Silva is back! I'm not super-sure what to do with him, because mostly I want to write some 'bonding' time (yes, that was an intentional pun - anyone who has read some of my other works knows that Bond+Q= 'Bonding' time). I'd be quite happy if Silva just magically *poof!* died, but that seems rather lackluster...


	23. Their Own Alchemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the only way to take apart nightmares is to find a partner who has the patience, skill, and tenderness to take you apart piece by piece...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And to think, this all started with me hearing the song 'Blow Me Away' by Breaking Benjamin. Don't ask how that song gave me the idea - I just heard the song, and it meshed with this idea that I had, and suddenly I'm writing London under siege by super-powered villains...
> 
> Anyway - this chapter is a bit longer, and I also recommend that song! It fits just about any fight scene you can find (^.~)

The two of them more or less stumbled and fell onto the bed - which, being little more than a glorified cot with a metal headboard, almost buckled under the impact.  Bond had gotten Q hooked on his kisses, however, and once Q had gotten used to those and judged them safe, there was little that could distract him.  There was an energy crackling in the air as if they were both frayed live-wires, sitting close to each other and feeding off the mutual charge.  All of the tension and fear, the madness and fury, couldn’t be dissipated without first being transformed, and right now they were creating their own alchemy - morphing pain into something just as dangerous, but far more pleasurable.  

Bond knew that he’d have to let Q be on top even as their legs tangled and bent at the edge of the bed, because having James penning him in and looming over him would be tantamount to being caged to the bed by a monster - albeit a monster resurrected from memories, bound to the flesh of a familiar form.  Bond had known regular bed-partners with no history of violence or assault who were uneasy about 007 looming over them, so it didn’t take much thought for him to accept this conclusion as applied to Q.  Therefore, ungrudgingly and without complaint, Bond made no attempt to wrestle for a different position as the two of them settled onto the bed with Q’s slender frame on top.  He bit back on his dominant tendencies, easily sublimating them in favor of just enjoying the taste of Q’s mouth - apparently the addiction went both ways.  Sometimes, Bond was disturbed by how much of his heart was invested in this skinny Technopath, and how hunger thundered in his ears more and more loudly the closer Q got to him.  

A few times, Q would jerk and freeze, breath coming to a literal stop; in those moments, it didn’t take a Telepath to know that some memory or other had slipped in, hitting Q like a knife.  Bond would pretend to ignore the way Q’s hands would spasm tight, his posture becoming subtly more ready and defensive, and how the kiss would halt for a moment as if dipped in liquid nitrogen.  Instead, he just waited the episodes out, watching and listening carefully until Q’s mouth would press against his again, receptive and sometimes apologetic.  Bond could be patient, especially when the reward was Q.  

Outside of these stutters of remembered panic, Q didn’t seem afraid, but before things could get more...personal...he pulled back and stopped, looking down at Bond while the larger man lay underneath him.  During the last flashback, one of Q’s hands had somehow found its way to the 00-agents wrists, holding them above Bond’s head in an unconscious effort to keep them away from him.  Without really thinking, Bond had been about to slip loose of the hold (something he was good at thanks to applied practice as well as MI6 training).  The imploring look in Q’s eyes dissuaded him, however, even as Q’s other hand remained splayed on his chest, two fingers having slipped innocently between the buttons of his shirt before Q had pulled back.  This time the fear lingered, and a quiet tremor held the smaller man in a stubborn grip as he caught his breath and pursed kiss-stained lips.  

The Quartermaster’s warmth against Bond’s torso was perfect and sensual and calming all at once - like a draught 007 had been waiting years for without realizing it - but 007 also knew that Q had a ‘ _handle-with-extreme-care_ ’ sign hung in his soul, and that things would not proceed pleasantly if he didn’t respect that.  He flexed his fingers, indulging in a brief, disgruntled thought that it would be awhile before he’d be touching Q again.  He’d have to just live with that, though.

Despite the fact that he looked to be getting anxious, Q didn’t shy away from the prospect of imminent intimate contact - at least not quite.  He could have quit the room entirely or called for a stop, but Q instead merely looked Bond in the eyes and requested earnestly after wetting his lips a few times, “I...I need to be in control.”  His words sounded awkward and rough after the sounds of just their breathing.  Behind his glasses, green eyes tightened, and the corners of the Quartermaster’s mouth turned down at the acidic aftertaste of memories that were trying to climb up his throat.  “I need…” he struggled again to articulate the ropes and bindings that restrained his fear and kept the broken pieces of himself together for them to heal.  

Seeing that Q was on the edge of panicking, Bond immediately replied by way of relaxing entirely.  All of his instincts tended towards being the one on top - the one in control - but he shoved those aside at Q’s nervous behest.  It had been a subtle game getting underway before, with Bond’s strength taunting Q’s hands, but it wasn’t a game that James _had_ to play, and if he wanted Q to stay in bed with him, it wasn’t a game he _could_ play.  “Shhh, Q, it’s all right.  Take whatever control you want,” he said in a voice that was low and husky but also sincere.  The tones were forgiving and designed not to alarm.  Bond’s muscles had lost their tension, and now Q tipped his head up in surprise to see Bond simply lounging on the bed, arms limp and accepting of the Quartermaster’s long fingers pressing down on them - a show of trust that he hadn’t thought a 00-agent as trained as Bond was capable of.  Weren’t men like Bond trained that helplessness meant danger?  Almost dubiously, Q turned his attention back to Bond’s face, frowning because he hadn’t known that Bond had a willingly submissive bone in his body.  He remembered, however, the way Bond had knelt on the floor below him  before, urging Q to kiss him without trying to take anything back himself.  

But the pale-blue eyes that looked back at him were as open and clear as a sunny day, and the smile was patient and still warm.  In all appearances, Bond was simply waiting and watching to see what Q would do, fully content to let him do anything.  “I’ll behave however you need me to,” he assured Q with a slightly broader smile as he saw the continued fear crackling in Q’s eyes and tense posture.  That fear lived constantly beneath Q’s skin, and Bond was not only willing but _eager_ to alleviate it, if not for Q’s sake then for his - because he wanted Q’s nearness.  He wanted it like air in his lungs, and he’d do almost anything to get it.  007 coached his voice into sincerity and calmness and said in all soberness, “Sex isn’t something that’s supposed to make another person uncomfortable, Q.  Anyone who thinks otherwise is either doing it wrong or has another agenda.”

“And you don’t?”  Q and Bond were close enough after all this time that Q felt he could ask that, bluntly.  His nervousness was given away in the slight cracking of his voice, which made his cheeks instantly color in embarrassment.  He’d been fighting this wariness from the first brush of Bond’s lips, but now it had all fallen on him like piled snow off a roof.  

With his arms still above his head, shrugging was an odd motion, but Bond did it anyway.  “When I’m on a mission, I _always_ have an agenda.  When I’m off-mission, I prefer willing partners who are having as much fun as I am,” he informed Q shamelessly.  His eyes caught Q’s, seeing past everything, seeing to the truth and the memories that were still nearly as sharp and fresh as when they’d been inflicted - but just healed enough that they would not bleed if Bond touched them very gently.  “Go on, Q.  I won’t lie and say that I’m a kitten, but if you want to be in control, be my guest.  It will be a novel experience for me.”

“You’re always the dominant one in sex then?” Q asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Bond was glad to see that the wry, faint, mischievous smile was almost back, and returned it with a crooked grin of his own, eyes glinting as he shifted his weight awkwardly where he lay.  “It’s a habit I’ve formed.  I’m good at it, and people rarely complain.”

“Well,” Q hummed, not really disagreeing, but not ready yet to joke about sex in its entirety.  He looked back up to Bond’s wrists in his grip again, so Bond ceased his teasing and let Q lead.  “Can you…”  Q stopped, thinking over his words until he could pick the ones he wanted and say them without a waver in his voice - although it was still thin and a bit desperate.  “I won’t restrain another person, but if I ask you, would you hold onto...hold onto the headboard and not let go?  I...”  Q looked down again, ashamed.  “I don’t think I can stand you touching me - not like this.  Not yet.  I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Bond said soothingly, even as he moved.  He hadn’t been joking when he’d said he wasn’t used to being so passive in a sexual encounter, so in all honesty, he was relieved that Q wasn’t going to feel the need to restrain him just to feel safe.  That would definitely have pushed the limits of how far Bond’s training would allow him to put his safety in the hands of another.  With a slow play of muscles, Bond reached further up over his head, slipping out of Q’s grip only as long as it took to find the metal bands of the headboard, wrapping his fingers around them slowly.  As Q’s hand moved to join the other on Bond’s chest, a spot of warmth seeping through his shirt, Bond realized just how hard this was going to be.  He grunted, “If that’s what you need, I think I can manage it.”  He glanced down from the headboard back to Q, who still looked supremely nervous, but wasn’t running away yet.  “Doing okay, Q?” he asked with quiet sympathy.  “I swear, I won’t move until you want me to.”

After a moment of collecting himself, Q managed a shaky nod and then let out a gusting, relieved breath.  Bond was glad to see some of the tension leave Q’s lean frame.  “Thank you, James.  Can-?  Can I touch you?”  He’d removed his hands from Bond’s chest, but now stretched one out questioningly towards a button on 007’s shirt.  

Bond shifted and re-clasped the headboard, mentally telling himself that he could do this - that he could keep his hands to himself and not wrestle Q into the bed as soon as the man touched him.  He wasn’t a good man, but neither was he a monster.  The agent just nodded, placid smile still on his face to let Q know that this was all right.  

Q’s hands had always been an artist’s hands, and now they reached forward with a fragile, careful sort of grace, slowly undoing a button, and then another.  Bond found himself in the position of watching himself being slowly undressed, a slice of his chest being painstakingly revealed as Q worked his way down the row of buttons.  Q had to shift his position a bit, kneeling up, one leg now pressed flush to Bond’s side while Q leaned over him with almost studious attention.  There was something about this simple action that was somehow more erotic than the more intimate alternatives, and by the time Q untucked the edges of Bond’s shirt from his trousers, the breathing of the agent had deepened a few notable notches.  Q looked up, uncertain, until he took note of Bond’s eyes angled silently down on him.  An intimidating look?  Maybe.  It was a look as immovable as a mountain, unblinking and intense, as if Bond were going to wrap Q up with his eyes if he couldn’t do it with his limbs.  Spots of flush appeared on Q’s cheeks, but his mouth quirked, pleased at the effect he was having.  

But Q didn’t say anything, or comment on the darker color that was swallowing the pale of Bond’s eyes.  Instead, he grew tentatively bolder, smoothing Bond’s open shirt down so that it revealed the entirety of his stomach and chest, down to his sides.  Q’s hands inevitably accompanied the motion, lingering as they drifted down the smooth arc of ribs that rose and fell in measured movements.  Q’s skin was cool compared to 007’s natural heat (maybe it was part of being a Deathless, to run a bit on the hot side - maybe it was just natural), and Bond fancied he could feel the faint texture of the wires as they surfaced on the pads of Q’s fingertips.  

“Do you mind?” Q asked with painfully careful consideration, and it took a moment for Bond to realize that Q was leaning his head down, edging close enough so that his breath already brushed warmly against the muscle of one pectoral.  This close, Q’s messy hair was a gorgeous dark-chocolate color, coiling this way and that and cascading over the outer rims of his glasses, and his eyes were so clear.

Well, this was a good sign, Bond figured.  Q might not have been interested in Bond touching him, but the opposite was still very much an option, one that Bond felt two ways about: part of him was already growling on the inside, eager for contact, but an equal part of him realized that this plan of staying passive and still was going to get exponentially harder if Q did anything to him.  Bond had to actually clear his throat before answering, voice low and husky, “This is your show, Q.  I’m just a participant.  A very _willing_ participant, for the record.”  He shifted his hands at the head of the bed again, so tempted to unlatch them and drag that messy head up close where he could map every angle of it it with his mouth; instead, he contented himself with grinning.  

Q was comforted by the very familiar, mischievous look, and snorted a small laugh before ducking in and placing a remarkably chaste kiss between the powerful pectoral muscles - a ‘thank you’ painted without words.  Q’s hands became a little bit more free, a little bit more adventurous, and Q began to slowly let his mouth travel, too.  If just this little bit of inadvertent teasing made Bond look at him like that, then this was all worth it.  Fingertips teased at the mesh of muscle over Bond’s ribs, tracing their contours and pressing close with instinctive possessiveness when Bond’s ribcage flared with a deeper, more ragged breath - Q’s lips had just ghosted over one nipple, still as light as curiosity itself.  The bed creaked as Bond’s body arced just slightly, muscles giving a defiant tremor as he resisted the increasing urge to lower his arms.  “Bloody minx,” Bond muttered at him in a voice that was far too throaty to sound properly vexed, and Q’s eyes danced up to his, seeing how 007 was looking at him with enough want to drown a country.  Bond was still keeping his hands locked, white-knuckled, on the headboard, however, so instead of being afraid of the nakedly carnal look that was growing in the larger man’s eyes, Q tried on another little smile and did the same trick again with more certainty.  

This was, thus far, a success.  Q was relaxing - Bond could feel it in the way the Quartermaster let his body stretch out more, the material of his clothing brushing Bond’s bare skin and making him shiver as Q leaned over him to try an exploratory nibble on the edge of Bond’s collarbone.  When Bond gave in and groaned at the feeling, Q sat back - a little bit flushed himself - and then finally reached to grab the hem of his own shirt.  He paused a second, as if gathering his nerve before just jumping off a cliff into the crystalline waters below.  As with any person leaping to possible death, that pause hung in the air like a pendulum poised on the cusp of time before tipping beautifully into motion.  

Bond let his eyes wander appreciately for a moment, as relaxed as a lion eyeing prey, and he didn’t feel any need to withhold the compliment: “You’re beautiful, Q.”

Q flushed up to his ears and down to the pale skin of his chest, pushing up his glasses and flicking his hair out of his eyes in the most adorable stalling motion Bond had ever seen.  “I...um, well...thank you.  I’m not exactly built to your proportions, but your appreciation is…”  Q got a good look at Bond’s appreciation, both in the man’s eyes and the swell of his pants, and swallowed thickly.  “...Noted.”  His own pupils blown, Q slowly leaned down until his head was hovering over Bond’s again, arms braced to hold him up a few inches and expression surprisingly soft.  A line appeared between Q’s brows that 007 wanted to rub away, but he still remembered his promise not to touch.  “You’re okay with this, aren’t you?  With…?  I mean...James, I’m not the only one with a history of sexual violence here.”

Bond tilted his head up to answer wordlessly but eloquently with his mouth, but Q pulled back just out of reach, forcing Bond to subside with an irritated but resigned growl.  “Do you want me to spell it out for you, Q?” he muttered, giving his body a purposeful flex that brought his bare torso up to brush against Q’s, immediately eliciting a deliciously sharp inhale of breath that was slowly and shakily released to waft across Bond’s faintly-smirking face.  The agent’s gaze was faintly wicked, those bedroom eyes that could lure in partners equally with danger as with charm - and had done so quite a lot.  “I’ve slept with more people than I can count since that memory you saw, and while the first few times were torture, I’ve learned how to save the nightmares for when I’m actually sleeping.”  His eyes glinted cheekily.  “And I do very, very little sleeping when I’m in bed with another person.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Q chuckled, giving 007’s side a pinch that was more ticklish than anything else - and then there was another of those telltale, poised pauses before Q relaxed his body completely, giving 007 some of the contact he craved by lying down chest-to-chest.  Q’s eyes looked more at ease, too, as he murmured and inspected the proud line of 007’s nose, “But I like the idea of staving off the nightmares.  It seems so wrong that they can slip out of their locked vaults even when so many of the people who created them are dead.  Thank you - again.  I probably shouldn’t morally be thankful to you for killing people, but some of those people I’m glad you put an end to.”

“That’s what I’m here for - a finger to pull a trigger,” Bond murmured with distracted sincerity, meaning the sentiment but having far more interest in Q’s face and the connection between their skin.  Blue eyes tracked across Q’s visage like someone planning out moves or cataloguing a blueprint for later use, and then the agent’s head was surging up again, and this time he caught that elusive, witty mouth.  If the only demanding he was allowed to do included kissing, then 007 was going to make the most of what his mouth could do and reach.  He licked against the seam of Q’s lips, begging entrance as much as an agent ever begged, and when Q jumped in surprise, James switched his attention flawlessly to kiss blushing cheek-bones and that pointed chin.  Anything Q would give him, Bond would take, and if it took him years to map all of Q’s insecurities, then he’d do it - lavishing attention on this body until he knew every inch of it that he was allowed to kiss, touch, lick, and caress.  

It was also getting quite amusing to move his body, because the slender Quartermaster barely weighed anything at all and was already showing a habit of becoming so distracted by what Bond could do with his mouth that he forgot that the rest of him still existed - and, except for his arms, was quite mobile.  Curving his spine, Bond lifted his torso again, muscles locking up his abdomen and flexing beneath Q in a wave of hot contact and friction.  In a reflexive jerk, one of Q’s hands jumped from the bed to James’s side again, fingers digging in as if he needed to anchor himself there.  Q gasped in the most delicious way, and Bond had to resist the urge to put more tongue into the kiss.  Instead, the agent backed off, resting his head back to simply watched the look of surprised bliss turn Q’s expression lax.  “Beautiful,” Bond repeated the word, feeling Q’s gasp in the form of ribs pressing against his own.  All of him was a beautiful contrast to Bond, the agent realized: fragile to his strength, brains to his brawn, pale to his tanned.  It was so incongruous as to almost seem wrong, but instead, Bond felt perfection uncurling like flames inside the walls of his chest.  

“Q.”

“Yes?” the Quartermaster asked with breathlessness and such a complete lack of guile that the 00-agent’s eyes softened.  

However, he still had to say with complete, grim sincerity, “You are making it very, very hard for me to keep my hands to myself.  I’m doing my best, but it’s hard.”  He finished off with a flash of a grin, flexing his fists like a cats claws extending and withdrawing pensively.  

Blinking at the movement, Q looked worried for a moment, and the shifting of his fingertips against 007’s side was more out of unease than buzzing energy, but instead of calling everything off...Q did something unexpected.  “I...I suppose...you could touch me.  If you didn’t do it too fast!” he warned with fervor and a sharp glance.  He was nervous, but doing his best to hide it.  “I have to...I have to know that it’s you,” explained the Technopath more softly and with aching vulnerability in his tone and lowered eyes, “You I trust to do _anything_ , but I need time to remind myself that I’m not just feeling...someone else.”

“You’ll know it’s me, Q.”  Bond leaned up to kiss Q - sweetly this time, not yet moving his arms down from above his head.  When Q melted gratefully into the encouraging kiss, Bond murmured against his lips, “If I could, I’d brand myself all over you, until I was all you could remember.”  

Q shivered, eyes closed and lips parted.  “I know you would, 007,” he sighed, something precious like trust in his voice.  He almost didn’t seem to notice as Bond coaxed him to sit back a bit, until a hand touched his elbow, breaking the spell.  007 was still lying as benignly as a man of his size and training could, but now his arms were lowered near to Q’s, one lifted in a questing touch.  

“Sit up, Q.  On me.”

A tittering, nervous laugh escaped Q’s chest, and he raised an eyebrow as he nonetheless complied to swing a leg over 007’s waist.  “Are you implying that I could hold you down for more than five seconds just by sitting on you?”

“No, I’m implying that your instincts will _think_ that you can, so you can relax while I do this.”  Bond sat up, too, leaning forward to capture yet another kiss, this time trapping Q’s lower lip to drag it past his teeth.  Q groaned, partially in surprise but mostly in involuntary appreciation, and he soon had his hands braced back against Bond’s thighs.  

Because he was allowed to now, per Q’s orders, Bond touched, but kept it simple.  Q seemed to like having his hands touched, so he caught one and dragged it forward again, petting the spread fingers that didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves.  Bond let them go when he turned his attention to sucking a bruise onto the side of Q’s neck, and didn’t even mind when the Quartermaster’s fingertips danced across his nape.  Instinctively, Bond knew that he was vulnerable in some places more than others, but even as Q stroked hesitantly at the tendons to his neck, Bond couldn’t bring himself to be wary.  Instead he cupped the back of Q’s head and finally threaded his fingers into that mess of dark hair.  

They were making out like naive college kids necking for the first time, and 007 didn’t even care.  It was tricky to keep Q on the edge of pleasure without tipping him over into panic, but there was no one like a 00-agent for watching faces and reactions for any sign of trouble - it made them oddly suited for each other.  Using his training for good instead of evil was a novelty, but finding out what Q liked was ten times more rewarding than finding out where some random target liked best to be scratched.  Bond - panting almost as hard as Q now, eyes dark and heated - sat back from Q long enough to lift one of those long-fingered hands and take two sensitive fingertips into his mouth, stroking the pads with his tongue until he fancied he could feel some of the Technopath’s electrical energy sparking against his teeth.  The way Q had sagged back against the agent’s raised knees and was watching with heavy-lidded fascination made Bond grin smugly and give one final lick between the two dexterous fingers.  

“If you weren’t a Deathless, I’d say you were some sort of demon,” Q got out between breaths.  

“Who says I can’t be both?  Either way, you seemed impressed,” Bond preened a little bit, taking a chance and cupping the side of Q’s neck with his hand.  Q leaned into it instead of pulling away.  

“Hm.  Yes, ‘impressed’ is the word,” Q agreed dryly, cracking a smile.  

“Minx,” Bond accused in return, before running his hand down to the curve of Q’s shoulder, thumb rubbing little circles over the protruding wing of one collarbone contemplatively.  The thoughtful look that accompanied that turned quickly to a more decisive one as Bond stopped resisting the urge and leaned forward, biting down and worrying the skin where his thumb had been.  “Too much?” he pulled back to ask when Q sucked in a breath and stiffened.  

“No...no, not too much,” Q breathed out, seeming to gather himself with effort.  His eyes, which had fallen closed, dredged up the power to open and blink in amazement.  “Surprisingly not too much.  Bloody fuck, but you’re good at this.”

Bond smirked and pressed another biting kiss up under Q’s jaw, almost under his ear.  His pants were getting uncomfortably tight, but he didn’t mention it in favor of getting more of that rough, wrecked sound in Q’s voice.  “Well, this is only one of three ways I have to deal with stress, like you said.  I also happen to be bloody good at shooting and drinking.”  He moved up to just breath against Q’s ear, nuzzling the rim as he heard as much as felt Q’s little anticipant quiver.  “I’d love the smell of wine on your breath,” he told Q huskily for no other reason than because the thought had come to his head.  He chuckled at the ease with which the sound had come out of his mouth, and curved one hand over Q’s ribs as he pressed the side of his face affectionately into Q’s hair.  “Do you know how nice it is to be with someone whom I don’t have to watch my every word with?”

Q allowed the touch to his side, reciprocating by looping both of his arms loosely around the back of Bond’s neck and tilting his head against his.  In a small voice that tried to sound joking, Q asked back, “Even though that person isn’t ready to let you into their pants?”

With a sigh scraped up from the bottom of his stomach, Bond wrapped his arms around Q, but when he pulled him in so that they were chest-to-chest again, it still felt more...protective than sexual.  “Q, I didn’t drag you away from Silva - more than once - because I wanted a quick shag.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because…”  Now that was a question.  Sometimes, Bond didn’t even know, and that scared him.  This kind of attachment usually didn’t come easily to him - usually, it didn’t come to him _at all_ \- and yet the smell of Q’s skin and the heat of him pressed against him was like a vital element.  “I don’t want to be anywhere but here,” he admitted in hoarse, soft wonder, face still pressed against Q’s neck and hands splayed over the pale, smooth back.  Q’s thighs were tight on either side of his hips, knelt up on the bed, creating just enough friction between them that 007 thought he might not go nuts, and every breath had their chests and stomachs brushing in little movements.  Q’s arms, now tightened around the back of his nape, were like a safe harbor.  

Because by 00-agent standards, Q was no more broken than the next person, and the need that howled in every agent’s chest as they chased targets and shot villains around the word...was for safety.  

Q turned the lights off in the room with just a touch to the wall, and then returned his hand to gently touch 007’s hair, stroking it down, ruffling it up.  He mapped powerful, defined muscles in the dark with hands more reverent than his eyes, feeling how the sexual energy in 007 shuddered and transformed into simple...bliss.  

“And all I want is to be here, too,” Q assured him in a voice so soft that the gloom nearly swallowed it, but Bond heard it anyway, and rumbled appreciation deep in his throat as he curled his fingers in tightly against the lean lines of Q’s back.  

~^~

Bond’s phone barely vibrated, but his eyes opened up anyway, pupils shrinking as they fixed on the single light of his cell in the darkness.  He reached out to pick it up, feeling Q’s arm slide off his biceps to loop over his ribs instead.  The feel of the naked body curled up behind him made warmth curl appreciatively up Bond’s spine, ending in a smile that danced across his lips.  It had been very late by the time the two of them had gotten to sleep, and by then, the nightmares hadn’t had the strength to chase them.  “Yes?” Bond grunted into the phone, voice quiet so as not to wake the man in the bed behind him.  

The number was one that Bond recognized, so M’s voice coming through didn’t startle him - what she said, however, did.  “Silva is dead.  Someone managed to execute a power-outage not unlike the one your Quartermaster instigated yesterday, only this time, in the room where Silva was being held.  I thought I’d have to call you for a manhunt through bloody MI6, but when the power came back on, Silva hadn’t made it very far.  He won’t be running anywhere ever again.”

Mixed emotions tangled in Bond’s gut, and the strongest one would have been vicious pleasure and triumph if it weren’t for the implications...his eyes traveled back to Q, still sleeping soundlessly with only his arm and hair sticking out of Bond’s blankets.  Q’s bare knee nudged sleepily against the back of 007’s thigh.  “It wasn’t Q,” Bond said, immediately and with the kind of certainty that usually involved a loaded weapon, “He’s been with me the entire time since you saw us last.”

“Oh, I know it wasn’t Q.  Evidence strongly suggests that whoever did this had the knowledge or codes to hijack some of Q’s systems, and also had canine teeth and the ability to rip a throat out if they got a body low enough,” M said quite calmly, adding, “Oh, and coincidentally, the names and locations the Quartermaster got out of Silva _were_ correct.  He really was willing to betray high-ranking members of his own organization for the sake of psychologically torturing one man.”

“James...what is it?”  Q’s murmur was sleepy and slurred, and his hand slipped up and down Bond’s ribs more in an attempt to find a handhold than anything else.  Bond glanced back just as Q got his other arm beneath him and propped himself up on one elbow, eyes looking huge and young without his glasses, although it made it easier for 007 to see how they glowed like little computer screens in the darkness.  

There was no reason not to say it, so while he tried to figure out what this all meant, Bond muttered to Q, “Silva’s dead.”

“What?”  Now Q was coming more awake.

M said a few more things before Bond turned on the bed, catching Q’s eyes and asking seriously as he lowered the phone, “Q, if there was a password to your computer systems...would Kaleb Dawson have it?”  He was thinking of little white teeth bared in a snarl - not a very intimidating snarl when one thought about how small the dog was, but the human determination behind it made Kaleb dangerous.  

“Yes,” Q said instantly, blinking confusedly, “It’s my name.  I don’t give it out to many people...not in a long time, at least.”

“Well, someone created blackout conditions in Silva’s location, and when the lights came back on again, they had a body with a torn throat to deal with and no Kaleb to be found,” Bond informed the slender man now sitting up straight next to him.  

Q sat and stared at nothing for a long time, then said with feeling, “Shit.”  He didn’t comment more than that, but Bond lifted the phone back to his ear again and murmured back to M that it was likely the shape-shifter was the culprit.  Bond couldn’t bring himself to be mad and, surprisingly, neither could M, it seemed.  

“We’ve already started raids on the locations he gave us,” M informed Bond, her voice quietly fierce, “We might have lost our source of information, but we have the means to take his organization apart nonetheless.  I expect you back on duty in three hours.  I’ve got a Teleporter for you to take into custody.”

“Understood, M.”  Bond hung up and tossed the phone aside, flipping over to face Q now, who still seemed shell-shocked.  

“There isn’t going to be a manhunt for Kaleb,” he said first.

Q looked desperately worried.  “How can you know that?!” he demanded sharply, and began looking for his glasses, which were actually on the table nearby, which would have necessitated crawling over Bond’s spread form.  The agent caught his wrists gently and pulled one in to kiss its palm, the gesture doing the trick to gain Q’s attention before he could fly into a panic attack.  

“I know that because I know M, and while she sounded a bit bloody peeved at losing a prisoner, she’s wanted him dead for a long time now.  Besides, the information you got from Silva was accurate.”

“It was?” Q blinked, as if he could hardly believe it.  He was shocked enough that he let Bond pull him in close, and for the first time since before he’d been captured, Q went into the powerful grip willingly.  

Bond tucked Q’s head under his chin after pressing a kiss to his messy hair, stroking a hand freely from Q’s nape all the way down to his tailbone and back up, knowing from last night that Q didn’t mind anymore - not so long as he could still hear Bond’s voice and know it was him.  “I have to go in a few hours to track down one of those people Silva mentioned,” he admitted, and the hand that wasn’t stroking smooth skin lifted to give Q’s nape a reassuring squeeze, “MI6 will be too busy taking London back to worry about one shape-shifter who took down a monster of a man a dozen times his size.”  Somehow, the thought of Silva being take out - alone in the dark, unable to see anything coming to use his Visceral powers against - by a dog that barely came up to Bond’s knee made Bond’s mouth curl into a grin.  One thing that Bond was learning from both Q and Q’s intriguing ex-boyfriend was that being small didn’t mean you had any less bite.  

“What are you thinking?” he asked Q on a whim, still loving the fact that he could say anything while they lay naked together, and he wouldn’t have to worry about that information being used against him.  

“That this is a lot to take in.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.”

Q had been relaxed against Bond’s chest, but now pushed back suddenly so that he could look down into Bond’s eyes, just visible as amused chips of blue in the dimness.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you see…”  Bond’s hand dipped slightly lower on the next caress, sliding down over Q’s hip to his thigh while the agent continued to smile playfully.  “...I was hoping that you were thinking that I had to leave in just a few hours - sooner, really, if we count in that I have to get dressed and go see my Quartermaster for my kit-”

“You’re seeing your Quartermaster already,” Q reminded him with dryness like a desert, “He’s right in front of your nose.”

“Oh, I’m seeing quite a lot of my Quartermaster, in fact.  But clothes might be appropriate in Q-branch.”

“You’re a cad.”

“Yes, but I’m the cad that you’re smiling at, and I can think of a few things I can get up to before I have to go…”  It was actually Q who shut him up, leaning back in for a kiss that had a bit of laughter mingled in - as well as relief, because for Q, the worst was finally over.  

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we reach the end! Whether or not Bond and Q just had sex I will leave up to you - they are definitely naked, but what you read into that is open to interpretation :)
> 
> I know that there are some loose strings, still: what happens to Kaleb, what becomes of the Augments and the city they had under siege. Hopefully I've hinted at the answers to those questions without boring anyone with details XD 
> 
> Kaleb will probably return again, because he has to know that neither of his two favorite people (Q and 007) will ever arrest him. 
> 
> With 007, Q, and M spearheading the effort, and with the head of the snake cut off, the rest of the Augments will have no choice but to back down - although London might take a bit of time to recover. 
> 
> If you have any more questions, I'd be more than happy to take a shot at answering them, and I apologize if this ending hit anyone too swiftly :P I'm not much of an 'Epilogue' person, and whenever I try to write 'wrap-ups'...it gets very, very boring very, very fast. So I didn't want to inflict that on anyone!


	24. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva is gone. London is rebuilding. Normalcy (or something close) is returning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I am usually _not_ very motivated by negativity, it seems like I ended this fic a bit too quickly. This chapter is very short, and not exactly exploding with action - but for those who like an epilogue, this is as close as I can get to one! Hopefully those loose ends aren't tassling in the wind anymore!

“I thought this day would never come,” Q murmured to himself, dropping his bags in the foyer, “A real flat.  My own, real flat, which is in no way connected to the tunnels of MI6 or the size of a broom closet.”  It was embarrassing just how elated he was about this, as he left his bags where they were and walked forward, eager to take in his new surroundings.  It had been a few years since the Silva Incident, and most of those years had been long, unpleasant, and honestly more stressful than Q wanted to contemplate as MI6 had turned the full brunt of her attention to hunting down the remaining Augments.  Some, of course, had turned out to be allies - thanks to Kaleb, they’d found out which, and Silva’s rogues had crumbled faster and faster like a sandcastle when the tide finally, _finally_ came in.  

Q looked down as his phone buzzed, taking out of his pocket and unlocking the screen with nothing more than a flicker of thought.  It was a text from Kaleb, shy as always, hinting that he’d found himself an apartment on the other side of the city.  Technically, Q should have reported both the text and the location to MI6, but since Kaleb’s only crime was the (largely unproven) murder of a wanted psychopathic, no one was inclined to punish the shape-shifter.  Besides, it was a widely known secret that 007 sometimes worked with Kaleb on the field, and if a Deathless liked Kaleb, then no one was arguing.  

Texting back his own location in case Kaleb was interested (or didn’t already know), Q went back to exploring his new flat.  He brushed his fingertips against the walls as he went, stretching out his senses and making little notes to himself about the technology he sensed.  He was muttering out loud when he heard the front door open and close and heavy breathing crack the silence.  Instantly, the Quartermaster was spinning around, adrenalin kicking through his gut.

“Q, if you shoot me, I swear I’ll go live with your ex,” Bond’s jaded warning came from the front entrance.  

Immediately, Q relaxed, and the hand that had gone to the laser pen in his pocket slipped back out, empty.  “If you could be bothered to learn to knock, that wouldn’t be an issue.  Besides, how do you know where Kaleb is?”

Bond was standing in the little foyer, rather blood-covered and breathing hard, but not bad by Deathless standards.  He held up his phone, which had a cracked screen but also a little message-box visible on it.  “He texted me.”

“Bloody turncoat,” Q muttered, not without affection.  He wrinkled his nose at the metallic smell of blood on the wrong side of Bond’s skin as he came forward.  “I’m going to have to have a talk to him about who’s been his friend for longer - you or me.”

“Oh, come on, Q,” smirked the agent, eyes crinkling playfully, “You know he’s got a crush on me.”

“Funny, I wasn’t interested in shooting you before, when I thought you were an intruder.  Now I’m changing my mi-”  He was cut off by 007’s mouth, which had an uncanny way of finding Q’s at the most inopportune of times.  Still, it took Q a good solid minute - and at least long enough for 007 to map the inside of his mouth with his tongue - before the Quartermaster could think to complain.  He pushed back.  “Ew.  No kissing with blood all over you.  You taste like an old penny.  Come on - the path to the bathroom is conveniently all tile, so you can stop dripping blood on my less washable things.”  Mainly Q’s bags and the shoes he’d toed off, but that was a hazard of being the partner to a 00-agent.  Q turned and beckoned Bond to follow, knowing that he did even though the agent was now as soundless as his own shadow behind him.  

Once in the bathroom, Q bustled about, not realizing how bossy he was being until James crossed his arms and just looked at him with one raised brow and the beginnings of a smirk.  Q responded by blushing and then tugging at the larger man’s red-strained shirt.  “Come off with it then.  It’s ruined anyway.”

“I’m a Deathless, Q.  You know this is hardly necessary.”  Nonetheless, Bond moved his limbs obligingly, until the shirt was coming off, clinging to his skin in places before it was stripped free and dropped in the sink.  That left Bond naked from the waist up and smirking again.  “There are far more straightforward ways to get my clothes off, although I admire this spark of creativity.”

Q turned back to him, eyebrows lifting up and disappearing under his mop of dark hair, and for a long moment was just the teensiest bit entranced by Bond’s muscular frame, which looked very enticing despite the smears of red.  It took a moment for Q to clear his throat and berate, “You’re insufferable, even by 00-standards,” and by then, Bond’s grin had widened to a full-fledged grin that would never wash off.  Q rolled his eyes.  “What kind of Augment did you annoy this time?  Your shirt looks a bit like Swiss cheese, but I’m not seeing anything that you haven’t healed up yet.”  Regardless, Q was prodding at places where the blood was thickest, practiced eyes finding the telltale signs of raw, newly-healed skin and touching them gently, feeling both triumphant and slightly apologetic whenever 007’s flinched.  Q’s fingers hovered over the horizontal scar that still stood out against the skin of Bond’s ribs, under his arm.  Memories stole back in, but were washed away when Bond curled his fingers under Q’s chin - doing his best not to smear drying blood on him - and lifted his head to meet his eyes.  

“I’m fine, Q.”  He smiled with a mere curling of his lips, voice an encouraging rumble that was only slightly cocky.  “I’m always fine.  After all, the only thing that’s managed to almost kill me was a certain Visceral bastard, and he happens to be dead.”  Bond lifted his mouth to kiss Q’s forehead, while Q moved his hands to rest against 007’s chest.  He’d dampened a cloth, and wiped distractedly at the red streaks, also looking at the scar from where Moneypenny had shot Bond - she’d thought she’d killed him, too.  There was something encouraging about knowing you were dating someone who was borderline indestructible, even if they continuously tested their limits.  

“You still didn’t tell me who and what did this,” Q reminded, tilting his head when Bond’s fingers scratched at his scalp.  He made a happy noise in his throat and hoped that he wouldn’t be washing gore from Bond’s hands out of his hair later.  “You know that if it’s a new Augment I’m going to get called back to Q-branch to devise some sort of trap, don’t you?”

“Funny story, actually,” Bond replied, stepping back and then beginning to shed more of his clothing before Q could argue.  Q raised an eyebrow and put on a dry, unimpressed expression, but didn’t even put a token effort into not staring as the 00-agent - _his_ 00-agent - stripped.  007 turned on the shower to let the water heat up.  “This wasn’t an Augment.  Things must really be getting back to normal,  because this was a regular shoot-out.  I was at the docks - smuggling gig.  They weren’t very good, but they were very armed.”  He grimaced at the memory, but his displeasure was fleeting - just like his wounds.  “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m happy to see regular old criminals coming out of the woodwork again.”

“Moneypenny’s been overhearing hints that agents might be sent out of the country again,” Q offered up what he knew, “The need for well-trained guard-dogs inside of our borders must finally be going down, or else M is just worried about her agents getting stir-crazy.”  He smirked, because Bond would be the first to go - the trouble he got into when unoccupied was legendary.  

“How could I go stir-crazy?” Bond joked, playing innocent but not playing it very well.  He’d leaned part way into the shower, finding it a good temperature, but now came back out again to pluck at Q’s sleeve.  He was dripping bloody water everywhere already, but didn’t seem the least bit apologetic about it - in fact, the only thing that seemed to trouble the blond-haired man was Q’s clothing.  “I’ve got _you_.  Surely that should keep me busy?”  He grinned a charming, roguish grin as his hands slid lower, now playing with the hem of his Quartermaster’s shirt and beginning to tease his fingertips beneath it.  

Q barked a laugh, unable to hold it back, and slapped Bond’s hands away.  “Now who needs to learn a lesson on being straightforward?  If you want me to shower with you, just ask, don’t start getting handsy with those gore-covered fingers of yours!  I happen to like this shirt…”

“You said you liked my handsy-ness.”

“I’m truly beginning to regret that I ever said that.  How come your memory is so good with things like that and yet its an utter loss when it comes to recalling where you dropped my tech?” By now, Q was beginning to rid himself of his clothing, too, suddenly far more interested in testing out the shower than investigating the rest of the house.  He hadn’t made a full check of the security systems on the place yet, but since he was sharing the room with a 00-agent who laughed in the face of life-threatening injuries, he wasn’t exactly nervous.  

Anticipant maybe, but not nervous.  He almost tripped getting out of his pants, and felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment right up until he caught 007’s eyes, which were dark and appreciative as he stepped under the spray of water again, eyes never leaving Q.  When Q stepped in with him, he was immediately pulled close, shivering at the contact of skin everywhere.  He could barely remember when he’d been afraid of that - maybe with others, but not with Bond.  

“Some memories,” Bond murmured, “are overrated.”  The muscles in his chest and shoulder flexed as he ran possessive hands up and down Q’s back and sides, always seeming to revel in the fact that he could do this.  The Quartermaster might still flinch when other people touched him unexpectedly or came too close, but a certain 00-agent with blue eyes and a penchant for trouble had free reign.   With water already plastering Q’s hair down to the back of his head, Bond pulled Q in close until he could whisper past the droplets at the shell of his ear, “Promise not to shut down the power in the entire house when you come?”

The noise Q made should have been a scoff, or a sound of embarrassment, but the sound that came out of the Technopath’s throat sounded a lot more like a groan as he reached around and clutched at 007’s shifting shoulder-blades as if for an anchor.  “That was one time,” he tried to defend himself, but his voice had already gotten breathy as Bond’s hands wondered skillfully.  Q’s back arched, seeking more contact, more friction - more everything.  “And it was just one hallway.  We were still living in MI6, remember?”

“People were complaining for days,” Bond bit at Q’s ear between sentences, mouthing hotly at the back corner of Q’s jaw, “And we couldn’t tell them what had caused the power outage, even though you were the all-knowing Quartermaster with Technopath powers.”

“I like how you’re saying that in past tense,” muttered Q back as he returned the biting favor - only on Bond’s chest, and hard enough to make the agent grunt and slide a foot back.  Q’s hands caught at his ribs and kept him close, however.  “Like I’m not still the head of Q-branch, where I outrank you and can make it official that you’re only allowed paperclips on missions.”

“Who says I’m not dangerous with paperclips?”

“Fine.  No paperclips either.”

“You know, Q,” warned Bond in a deceptively friendly voice, walking them forward so that he could roll his shoulders under the spray, getting the worst of the blood off and probably liking the way Q stared at his water-spiked hair, too, “if you start playing unfairly like that, I’ll have to reciprocate.”

Q gasped and his head tipped back as 007 ‘reciprocated’.  “That’s fine by me,” the Quartermaster sighed, trusting and at ease in Bond’s hands, “That’s more than fine by me...”

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides in shame at inability to write acceptable sex scenes* 
> 
> If anyone is curious about future Skyfall fics, I keep my works in progress up in a Google Docs page - there, you can read little snippets of what might be coming soon (~.^) Commenting is allowed and even encouraged so long as everyone can stay civil! Hopefully one of these will start being posted in a few weeks... (*u*) So excited!
> 
> Here's the link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/10MTLsoV0hKOS6EhS54IknjolsB7Vb0PXiLzT5TfLJ0I/edit

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] He Calls Himself the Quartermaster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3588666) by [Characterless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Characterless/pseuds/Characterless)
  * [Addicted to Hell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5553311) by [alex_kade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_kade/pseuds/alex_kade)




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